


Dishonor

by ktyxdovahkiin



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: #MeToo, Academia, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Daedra, Elder Scrolls Lore, F/M, Heidegger - Freeform, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Winterhold, Yngvild - Freeform, come and see how I mangle Heidegger, disgusting character, unlikeable POV character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktyxdovahkiin/pseuds/ktyxdovahkiin
Summary: The downfall of Phinis Gestor. Stay strong, Ervesa Sadras.This work is an adaptation of J.M. Coetzee's "Disgrace". And like the original... it is not intended to be an easy read. It will probably be highly uncomfortable. Be warned.Chronologically, this story takes place after the events described in "The Windhelm Murders, Redux: Now Comes the Mourning", "Journey by Night" and "Business is Good in Skyrim".
Comments: 20
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

For an aging Breton conjurer spending the last years of his life in a gods-forsaken corner of Skyrim, Phinis Gestor has, to his mind, solved the problem of sex rather well. On Turdas evenings he proceeds to the Atronach Forge in the Midden beneath the College, makes sure that he is alone, and performs the ritual that opens a portal briefly to the Myriad Realms of Revelry – the Daedric Realm presided over by Sanguine, Prince of Indulgence. There he presents an appropriate offering to the representative of Sanguine he will find waiting for him – usually a filled soul gem or simply a sufficiently exquisite gemstone – and is cordially transported to one of Sanguine’s pocket sub-realms.

There is invariably a female Dremora waiting for him, and as he enters the pocket she immediately refashions herself into whatever vision of comeliness he desires at that moment. The pocket itself shifts in accordance with his unspoken, sometimes unrecognized, wishes. The room-realm knows him better than he knows himself. It usually takes the somewhat unadventurous form of a luxuriously appointed bedchamber such as might be found in the wealthy castles of High Rock, pleasant and comfortable and softly lit by scented candles. He undresses. The Dremora attendant comes to him, usually wearing the visage of a young Redguard or Dunmer female, complaisant and pliable, nubile and clothed to whatever degree excites him the most in that moment. They disport themselves. When he is finished, he lounges with her among the sheets until the surroundings begin to fade into a hazy dream-mist, and eventually he finds himself back in his own bed within the Hall of Countenance.

He has grown used to this manner of ejection from Sanguine’s realm; what does it matter if the Prince knows exactly who he is and where he sleeps, and takes it upon himself to provide what amounts to a personalized concierge service? With a Daedric Prince, one does not cling to otiose concerns about privacy; the Princes, though sealed safely away in Oblivion, incessantly peek into the lives of virtually every mortal in Mundus. This ineluctable curiosity is part of their unchanging, unalterable natures, as he teaches in his lectures. A Daedric Prince cannot change – they gaze endlessly at the mortals on the face of Nirn, for mortals delight them with their multifarious desires and demands, doings and designs. There is no thought in any mortal mind that is closed to a Daedric Prince, as long as that thought is even tangentially related to the Prince’s sphere of being and activity.

It suffices for Phinis that he can reliably make solid compacts with Sanguine, with the correct ritual formula and offering. Sanguine has complete and utter knowledge of his carnal cravings, his lecherous lewdness, his perverted proclivities – what of it? He is, after all, one of Sanguine’s most regular mortal supplicants – nay, he is a client and patron, and for all intents and purposes the Daedric Prince Sanguine is the equivalent of a brothel owner, a procurer of fleshly pleasures. The relationship does not extend beyond this, because it simply cannot. There is an infrangible fixity to the nature of a Daedric Prince, and one who knows enough about this fixity can deal reliably with any Prince with little or no risk to their person.

He is aware that his attitude is complacent, and the slightest carelessness brought on by some stray temerarious impulse can lead to the imperilment of his very soul. Nevertheless, he remains confident in his familiarity with this slice of Oblivion and its workings. As Daedric Princes go, Sanguine is by far one of the most easygoing, and unlike the other sixteen Princes he does not typically require anything onerous from a mortal worshipper, nor does he impose any form of cruel or unusual punishment upon any would-be offender (unless, of course, such were the explicit wish of any particular person). There is an endless procession of recorded historical precedents to validate this belief. Phinis Gestor knows them all.

It is, after all, his profession: as Master Conjurer-in-Residence at the College of Winterhold he is a scholar and a teacher of all things pertaining to Oblivion. After spending the greater part of his life in deep study, not neglecting practical application, he finds it galling that the College restricts the scope of his experimentation to a degree that rightfully provokes indignation, since his colleagues are not subject to anything approaching the same constraints. He alone of all the other senior mages must fetter his practicum in this manner. He must ensure that any Conjuration magic performed on campus is only of the most rudimentary kind. Summoning Atronachs and Dremora may only be for very brief durations; soul-manipulation may not be performed on anything larger than a goat; and animating a dead body is not even to be spoken of. Phinis Gestor finds these limitations preposterous, and he takes pains to inform his students that they are not engaging with an appreciable fraction of the knowledge that he has to offer.

They do not seem to mind very much. The students who come to him for tutelage seem to have only the most banal of reasons for dabbling in Conjuration magic. They seek to summon Atronachs – of fire, frost or lightning – to aid them in combat. The most ambitious of them seek to bind a Dremora warrior or even a lord, for the span of a brief martial encounter. It is child’s play to Phinis Gestor. Less than that; it is unbearable tedium. The Atronachs are always of predictable form, the products of unimaginative, prosaic intellects concerned only with such things as dungeon delving and battlefield tactics. The summoners he teaches have no interest in knowing precisely which Dremora they have summoned: to them, a Caitiff or a Kynreeve is differentiated from a Markynaz only by combat prowess, and they do not care to know if the warrior they are binding is of the Bloodwraith clan aligned with Boethiah, or sworn to the Deathbringers aligned with Molag Bal. They listen with blank looks on their faces when he attempts to expound and elaborate; they nod diffidently, and forget what he says a moment after he has said it. This indifference galls him more than he will admit.

They do not perceive the wonder of the _creatia_ that is Oblivion, the very stuff and material of Oblivion: the indescribably marvelous plasticity, the sheer untrammeled malleability. He finds it an inexhaustible source of fascination. Illusion magic, the province of his colleague Drevis, deals only in superficial deceptions of the senses that perceive. Alteration, the demesne of acting-Archmage Tolfdir, makes only minor modifications to the physical properties of beings and objects, operating purely within the confines of the laws defining Mundus. Conjuration, rightly understood, molds _reality itself,_ with potentially limitless possibility.

If not for the barrier put in place by Martin Septim’s sacrifice, Mundus itself could be as changeable as any realm of Oblivion, taking its cues from the strongest minds among them capable of envisioning and enacting the most far-reaching actualizations. In such a world, someone like himself, Phinis Gestor, would be more powerful than any emperor. There are times when he empathizes most deeply with the heretic Mankar Camoran, and he toys with that lamentable figure’s tantalizingly alluring insistence that Mundus rightly understood is in truth another Daedric Realm, with Lorkhan as its Prince.

All of these nuances, of course, are completely lost on the students at the College. They are unburdened with such esoteric ruminations. Their minds are refreshingly clean and clear. He is a custodian of forbidden knowledge in a world manifestly uninterested in that knowledge.

Nevertheless he fulfills to the letter his obligation to them as a teacher at the College, assigning them research to perform and appending brief comments to the scrolls of writing they submit for grading and critique. There is a compact in place, after all. They have come to the College to hone and develop their knowledge and mastery of magic, to whatever individual limits they possess. He eats the bread and meat of the College, and drinks its wine; he therefore serves the College as it requires of him, as the compact dictates. The irony of it does not escape him as he lies in the embrace of his Dremora consort in Sanguine’s realm. I too am a prisoner here, he thinks, but of my own device.

Another irony: he yearns for change in an unchanging world, yet when he comes to a realm of infinite changeability his fantasies rarely vary. By this stage of his life he knows what he likes: he knows what will give him the most amount of pleasure with the least amount of groping uncertainty. He shapes the assigned Dremora into his own vision of salacious lissomness, and does not care to experiment as he would have to were he to solicit the services of mortal prostitutes in bunkhouses of ill-repute. Unlike his colleagues Faralda and Nirya, he does not particularly enjoy whips and chains and black leather. He does not particularly ask that the woman possess an aggressive or imperious demeanor. He has no particular hankering for the robust muscularity of a Nord woman’s physique, though the firm limbs of a beefy Redguard hold considerable appeal for him. He has realized and accepted that he much prefers darker skin tones to lighter; he fancies himself a connoisseur of the dusk and not the dawn. And he does not need the attentions of more than one woman at a time; he enjoys himself adequately with just the one, and never attempts to imagine an orgy, though he could if he chose.

In a very real sense, he is not a promiscuous man. He knows it is extremely probable that every time he visits he is attended to by a different Dremora. There is no way to tell short of asking, and he has never brought himself to do so. Even though her outward form is mutable, he cannot help but feel the same comforting familiarity one feels with a longtime lover. He has grown sentimental, he thinks – perhaps even irrationally uxorious. Nevertheless, he gradually relaxes his intellectual rigor and allows himself to think of the female Dremora as the same entity each time, albeit one capable of skin-changing, as a mortal woman might put on different costumes in the bedchamber to create a simulation of variety for the pleasure of her partner; an ersatz wife who has learned to please him according to his own particular predilections. It is perhaps the closest approximation of a spouse he can experience.

So it is that every week, on Turdas, he takes himself to Sanguine’s realm of unadulterated indulgence and debauchery for his own calibrated dose of delight: a moderate bliss, a moderated bliss.

Then one Morndas everything changes. For some days now the College has played host to a distinguished alumnus who has won honor and renown in the outer world. Brelyna Maryon, formerly of the College, is now Court Wizard at Windhelm to Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter, and is currently a Visiting Fellow at the College where she studied. Ever possessed of an inquiring nature, Brelyna Maryon has somehow managed to detect unusual fluctuations in the Aetherial membrane in the vicinity of the Atronach Forge. Since use of the Forge is supposed to be tightly regulated, this has become a matter of concern for the college administration, of which Phinis Gestor is a member. And as the acknowledged expert in all such matters, he is consulted by the Dunmer girl, who appears to have taken upon herself the mantle of an investigator. To his mind she is prim, prudish, even priggish, about the matter.

He is forced to dissemble.

“Based on the thaumic residue,” she says, all too astutely, “I would surmise that the Forge has been used to open portals to the realm of Sanguine. So this wayward conjurer we’re looking for is obviously performing this unregulated and highly risky act for sensual – nay, _sexual_ gratification. I can only imagine the depravity they’ve indulged in.” She shakes her head, making a disapproving noise. “What a waste of magic. And definitely against the rules, unless things have changed since the last time I studied here!”

“Indeed,” he says, wryly. “Very much against College policy.” He finds her voice grating.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she says deferentially, “but it might be possible, Master Gestor, to obtain a device for measuring and following the transliminal trail that the portal-opener has almost certainly left behind. I seem to recall that the late Master Gane may have such a device of Dwemer make in his collection. With your permission, Master Gestor, we could use it to locate and identify the culprit.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully and shakes his head in what he hopes is a discouraging manner. “It might be possible, but the transliminal resonance is bound to have been hopelessly contaminated by now. I held a group summoning practice session in the courtyard just this past weekend, you see, so I’m afraid we will find that the device will produce a hopeless web of crisscrossing trails when we get there.”

“Ah,” she says. “I had not thought of that. You’re quite right, Master Gestor.”

He gives a little laugh. “It is nevertheless a very sharp suggestion, and in almost any other place it would work very well indeed. You’re as perspicacious as ever, Brelyna. This College has produced few graduates who are your match.”

She smiles and bows her head in an attitude of humility.

“I’m afraid the best we can do is to set some wards around the Forge,” he goes on, “and ensure that further tampering will at least alert the College faculty. We do not wish to be unnecessarily punitive, so the wards should serve only the function of warning, and not cause any undue injury. This is hardly another Oblivion Crisis, after all.”

Brelyna laughs and agrees. The wards are set. And henceforth, Phinis Gestor may no longer access the realm of Sanguine.

With his arts he may easily prolong his life for many decades to come. At the moment, though, longevity has lost much of its putative appeal. The College has become, for him, a somewhat more dismal place than before. When he thinks of his colleagues Faralda and Nirya privately enjoying an intense intimacy quite at odds with the façade of adversarial antagonism they display for everyone else, a shadow of envy passes over him.


	2. Chapter 2

Without the Turdas interludes the weeks become as featureless as the ice floes to the north of Winterhold. There are days when he does not know what to do with himself.

To pass the time he takes long strolls around the College grounds, gazing out over the parapets of the enclosing walls and across the Sea of Ghosts, enjoying the brisk wintry air with its tang of sea salt. Various tombs, cairns and temples raised by the ancient Nords dot the landscape and seascape, appearing deceptively near. He has always appreciated the finer delights of comfortable living, but long years in this part of the world have made him accustomed to the stark beauty of Skyrim.

He is on one of his strolls when he encounters Ervesa Sadras, one of the new novice students, and an heiress to a prominent Dunmer family. Rumors abound about the circumstances of her life just before she enrolled in the College; apparently she has somehow recently extricated herself from an unhappy marriage to no less a personage than Thane Erikur of Solitude himself. The rumors are of a dark, troubling nature, and serve to isolate her from the other initiates. It seems that she, too, is wont to take solitary walks. She is clever enough, he recalls, but unengaged. Her heart is not in magic, her mind not on the lectures and classes.

Their paths converge, and he smiles at her. “Hello.”

She smiles back. A sly smile, he thinks, not a shy one. There is a curious quirk to her lips that bespeaks the knowing, artful guile of her people, the Dunmer of Morrowind. Brelyna Maryon has a way of tilting and inclining her face that gives her an air of sharp-witted wiliness. This one, Ervesa, has a gracefully curved chin that gives her face a childlike vulnerability, an impression reinforced by the melancholy he detects in her large eyes. He finds he is delighted by the juxtaposition of that subtle smile with those open, soulful features.

He also finds he is mildly smitten with her. Is she conscious of it? Surely she is. Women are always conscious, after all, of the weight of desire in the gazes of powerful men.

And that is what he is, after all, is he not? Quite possibly he is one of the most powerful men in Skyrim, in his own quiet way.

“Bracing air, this afternoon,” he remarks. “How are you finding it here… Ervesa, was it?”

“Yes, sir. Ervesa Sadras. It is very nice here at the College, thank you.”

“You attend my lectures, don’t you? I’ve seen you at the back, taking notes.”

“Yes, sir. They are very interesting.”

“I certainly try to make them so. Have you been shown around the college yet? It is usually the responsibility of the Master Wizard to take new students on a tour, but that position has been vacant for quite a while.”

“I’ve not seen much of it. Just my quarters in the Hall of Attainment, the lecture hall in the Hall of the Elements, and a bit of the Arcanaeum. But I didn’t stay long there.”

“Not the Hall of Countenance?”

“No, sir. That’s where the senior mages stay, isn’t it? Including yourself.”

“Indeed. Can I invite you to my quarters for some refreshments?”

A pause, cautious. “All right. But I should be getting back to my studies this evening.”

“You are welcome to stay for dinner. Come with me. This way.”

He leads her to the Hall of Countenance, up the winding stairs to the alcove that is the antechamber to his quarters. He speaks the spell of personal identification, and the door swings open to admit him and his chosen guest. He takes her cloak. There are flakes of snow speckling her jet-black hair. He stares, frankly ravished. She lowers her eyes demurely, evasive yet coquettish.

Despite her youth, she is after all not the ingénue she appears to be. Her people venerate Mephala the Black Hand, Daedric Prince of Murder and, among several other things, Sex. And she is, after all, a divorcee, like himself – with Thane Erikur’s unsavory reputation she cannot have remained an innocent for very long. Yet she carries herself as an uncertain young woman. Very different from the confident, self-assured Brelyna Maryon, who is perhaps just a tad too assertive. This one is a potential protégé more amenable to guidance and well-meant counsel.

He sets the table, laying out crusts of bread with nuts baked into the dough, and slices some roast venison seasoned with herbs from far-off Sentinel. Fresh tomatoes adorn the plates. He pours out two goblets of Alto wine. When he looks up, she is looking at one of his bookshelves, her head tilted inquisitively. She is scanning the titles on the book spines. With a snap of his fingers he summons a Dremora musician; the Dremora appears holding a flute, which he immediately begins playing. Soft melodic music wafts through the air.

Food, wine, music: the age-old ritual. He, Phinis Gestor, is after all a master of rituals, and no Daedric ritual can match the unique potency of the ritual conducted by someone seeking to attract a mate. Something in that thought gives him pause. She is not a peer; she is not his equal. She is one of his students in the College, and they will have to meet again as teacher and student. Is he prepared for that?

“Are you enjoying your studies?”

“They’re all right. I like the Destructive magic lessons.”

“Destruction, you mean.”

“I’m not so keen on Illusion.”

“Few are. Yet, correctly applied, Illusion magic can be every bit as effective as a lightning bolt or a fireball.”

It is true. He now finds himself wishing he had Drevis Neloren’s facility with Charm spells.

“Maybe I can learn to appreciate it.”

“Maybe. But in my experience, mages tend to discover their individual propensities very early on. Magic is, after all, a very personal way of shaping the world according to one’s immediate wishes, and in a manner dictated by one’s inclinations. We tend to gravitate towards the schools of magic that best suit us. It is something like… falling in love.”

Falling in love. Is that something people still do, or has it become a quaint outmoded notion, scoffed at by worldly women like Brelyna Maryon and Faralda and Nirya and even Colette Marence? Women who have found their own ways to enjoy pleasures in life tend to exhibit a certain disdain for the old fashions of courtship and seduction.

She looks at him quizzically, and does not comment.

“Do you have any kind of spell you particularly want to study? Do you have any magical passions?” he asks.

She frowns at the strange word. “I’ve been practicing how to simultaneously hold a Ward in one hand while performing basic magic with the other. So far, I’ve managed a Lesser Ward in my left hand and several small Firebolts with my right before I lose concentration and my Ward drops. I think it could be useful, if I could learn it properly. But I wouldn’t call battle magic a passion, exactly.”

So, not a creature of passion. Is she warning him off in an oblique, Dunmeri way?

“What are your plans here at the College?”

“I’m just here to… learn some skills, I suppose. This College used to be full of my people, so my family thought it was appropriate to send me here. They were telling me about how Brelyna Maryon has made a name for herself in Skyrim and made our people proud. I don’t have such lofty aims, I’m afraid. Maybe I just want to see how far I can go.”

“Have you spoken much with your kinswoman?”

“Not really. Our paths haven’t crossed. Also, she’s not really my kinswoman. If I’m related to her at all, the connection is so far back it doesn’t matter. Our Houses aren’t really allies, in any case. Never have been, as far as I know.”

She eats without inhibition. A healthy appetite, for such a slender woman.

“Do you like the music?” he asks.

She looks up. “That’s a very impressive trick with the Dremora,” she says. “I didn’t know they could be used for such things.”

“In some places in High Rock, they are regularly summoned to fulfill roles as butlers and porters,” he tells her, favoring her with a slight smile. “And courtesans.”

She looks away, and reaches for her goblet to wet her lips.

“Your family, House Sadras – do they currently reside in Mournhold or Blacklight?”

“Mournhold, nominally, but most of our holdings are on Solstheim, now. We’ve cultivated very close… relationships… with the Empire.” She bites her lip, and looks down again. A touchy subject, he senses. Best to skirt it.

“Are you married?” she asks suddenly, surprising him.

“Once before, long ago. But we divorced. Now I’m not.” He refrains from saying, _now I can no longer even make do with regular trips to Sanguine’s Myriad Realms of Revelry._ “More wine?”

She accepts another cupful, and sips. As she does, he leans over her, and brushes her delicate jawline with his fingers. “You’re very beautiful,” he tells her. “I’m going to invite you to do something reckless.” His fingers caress the other side of her jaw. “Stay. Spend the night with me.”

Her eyes regard him steadily and searchingly. “Why?”

“Because beauty like yours does not belong to you alone. It is part of the bounty given to you in this realm, this life. You have a duty to share it.”

She does not withdraw, but neither does she yield.

“And what if I already share it?” she says, her voice slightly breathless. She must be quivering from excitement. Pleasurable excitement, surely, from the thrill of being courted.

“Then you should share it more widely.”

Smooth words of seduction, old-fashioned, he knows. But in this moment he believes them. Beauty should be shared. Beauty does not own itself. She does not own herself.

“Azura herself would wish your beauty shared.”

A misstep. An error. Her small smile fades, to be replaced by a look of trepidation. One does not lightly invoke the names of the Good Daedra of Morrowind when speaking to Dark Elves. He had meant it as a casual reference to his mastery – as a Master Conjurer he may speak freely of any Daedric Prince without fear of reprisal. But now she has remembered who and what he is: a teacher of Conjuration magic, a scholar-in-residence at the College of Winterhold. A custodian of lore, a man of the book, a guardian of wisdom and repository of knowledge. She puts the goblet down. “I must be going.”

The last of the sun disappears over the rim of the world. The stars begin to shine in the night sky.

“A lovely night.”

She does not respond.

“Shall I walk you back to the Hall?”

“No.”

“Very well. Goodnight.” He reaches out and enfolds her in an embrace. For a moment he fancies he can feel her nipples against him, even through the fabric of the College robes they both wear. Then she slips away from his arms, and strides quickly across the courtyard to the Hall of Attainment.

That is where he should end it. But he does not. On one weekend every month the novices make a trip down to Winterhold proper for entertainment and recreation. With the end of the Civil War and a cessation to the arcane troubles precipitated by the Thalmor agent Ancano, Winterhold has begun to experience a slow reawakening in recent years. An influx of Dunmer immigrants and business interests has also sped this along, though not without inflaming a certain amount of anti-foreigner sentiment in the local Nord populace. The students, as well as a few faculty members, can now regard Winterhold as a sort of college town, and the gold they spend certainly helps to smooth over any lingering resentment of the College.

He takes a room at the Frozen Hearth – a private room tucked away in one corner of the cellar. Then he goes out to where she is shopping with a few of her fellow novices at Birna’s Oddments. “Ervesa,” he calls to her cheerily. “I thought you might like to join me for lunch. The Frozen Hearth has had a shipment of sujamma from Solstheim, if you can believe it. Shall we have a taste?”

She hesitates, wavers. But she is too momentarily confused, and she acquiesces, leaving together with him while the other students watch curiously.

At the Frozen Hearth she is subdued. He tries to lighten the atmosphere, asking her about her studies. There is a field trip being organized for next week, she says. They’re going out to Skytemple Ruins to study some of the interment practices of the ancient Nords. She does not say much, and does not eat much either. She pokes listlessly at her salmon steak and doesn’t touch her baked potato.

“What’s the matter? Is there something you want to tell me?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“Are you worried about the two of us?”

“Maybe.”

“Please, don’t worry. I’ll take care. I won’t let it go too far.”

Too far, he says. What is too far, in a matter like this? Is her notion of it the same as his?

He takes her into his room, which is comfortable enough with simple furnishings, in the Nord style. To the muted sound of moderate revelry in the tavern room above he makes love to her. Her body is nearly perfect – the shade of her blue-gray skin is practically the same as the shade he favors when he shapes a Dremora into a Dunmer form. Her red eyes are crystalline gems with lovely luster, ruby embedded within ruby. Although she is passive throughout, he expends himself with great energy upon her, and his climax is so pleasurable that from its heights he tumbles into the depths of Oblivion.

When he comes to, all is quiet. She is not in bed with him; she is sitting on a chair beside, at the table, dressed again in her robes. She appears pensive, with a small frown on her face.

She stirs upon seeing that he is awake, and stands up. “I must go,” she whispers. He makes no effort to detain her, and drifts off to sleep again for the night.

When he wakes, it is with a profound sense of well-being. He leaves the inn, nodding a courteous farewell to his sometime colleague Nelacar who is the only patron breaking his fast at this early hour in the tavern room. He makes it back to the College in time to collect his notes and deliver his next lecture. As he crosses the courtyard the sun dims – storm clouds are gathering. Ervesa is not at the lecture. He delivers it, fields questions, and then sets off to look for her.

It is raining heavily, in sheets. He finds her leaning on a parapet, looking out across the see. He comes up behind her and puts an arm around her waist. “You’ll catch cold,” he says. “Come with me. My room is much warmer.”

She follows him for a short distance, then halts. She licks her lips – he can feel that she is shivering from the cold. Poor girl – by any reckoning, human or Mer, she is still very young. So young, he thinks, only a little more than a child! What am I doing? Yet his heart lurches with desire.

“I missed you in class today,” he says. “Are you all right?”

She does not reply.

He takes her cold gloveless hands in his and rubs warmth into her fingers. “Ervesa!” he says cajolingly, trying to keep his tone light. But he has forgotten how to woo a living person. He sounds like a parent, not a lover.

“I’d like to go to my own room,” she says at last, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He silently accompanies her to the door of the Hall of Attainment. She turns around. “Thanks,” she says.

“Will you come over this evening?”

“I’ve got a study session with my friends.”

“Or tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Tomorrow is our field trip to Skytemple Ruins.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Thanks,” she says again, and slides quickly behind the door, shutting it behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings.

He seizes his chance when it presents itself. Ervesa has returned alone from the field trip – the others have apparently elected to stay longer and make some deeper study of the carvings, as well as how the sarcophagi have been laid out in specific patterns and sequences, or something along those lines. He has conducted this particular field trip before, so he can make an accurate guess. As a Dunmer, she grew up around dead things – no other race on Tamriel can match the Dunmer when it comes to the rich complexity of their funerary rites. Certainly this trip would hold little interest for her, teach her nothing new. So she is alone, in the Hall of Attainment.

When she opens the door to the room she shares with a few other novices, he gives her no warning; she is too surprised to resist the intruder who thrusts himself upon her. When he wraps his arms around her, she crumples like a marionette. “Not now!” she whispers urgently. “They may be back any minute!”

Nothing will stop him. He takes her to her bed, lays her upon it, pulls down her hood as if he is unwrapping a yearned-for gift. She was not made for these cold climes. She is slight, slim, small – she must wrap herself up in thicker robes than usual to stay warm. Her cheeks tend to flush easily, darkening her blue-grey and infusing her features with a strange sort of dark fire that excites him to no end. She is so _small!_ Wrapped up in robes, sprinkled with drifting bits of snow. He wishes to adore her. He wishes to cherish her. Never much to invoke the Nine Divines, he invokes Dibella now. Surely this is Dibella’s doing, Dibella’s fingers caressing his root.

She does not resist. All she does is avert her face, press her lips tightly together. She even helps him to undress her, lifting up her arms as he tugs her robes off her. Then she slips underneath the quilted covers and waits.

Not rape, not quite that, but undesired, unasked for and unwanted to the core. She remains slack for the duration of the deed, as if she were a rabbit caught in the mouth of a wolf and has decided to simply go limp, so that everything done is done _to_ her, as it were, from somewhere far away.

When it is over she says, “They will be back any minute. Please. You must go.”

He obeys. But when he finally reaches the privacy of his quarters, he is overtaken with such dejection, such dullness, that he sits at the table and slumps, unable to move.

This has been a mistake. A huge mistake. He does not doubt that at this moment Ervesa is attempting to cleanse herself of him. He pictures her filling up a bathtub with hot water, urgently lowering herself into it and brushing roughly at her skin, to the point of scraping and damaging her tender complexion. He himself feels the sudden impulse to take a bath in that very moment.

Later, out in the courtyard, he catches sight of Brelyna Maryon exiting the Hall of Attainment and casting him a strange look. He looks away, and betakes himself to the Arcanaeum to return some reference books.

The next day he is in the Arcanaeum again, with a few tomes spread out before him, preparing his notes for the next lecture. Suddenly he is aware that someone is standing in front of his table. He looks up, and recognizes the student standing there. It is the Nord Onmund. He came in together with Brelyna, Phinis recalls, but in the intervening years he has shown far less aptitude for magic than his erstwhile study-mate. He is still a senior student here at the College, and has always seemed content to simply spend his days slowly developing what magical talent he has.

Now, however, he seems anything but content. Onmund, who has always been nothing but polite and respectful to all the Masters and Mistresses of the College, drags a chair across the stone floor with a noisy sound and sits down across from Phinis Gestor without invitation. With an air of contrived insolence he puts his booted feet up on the table.

“So,” he says, “you’re the one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you _should_ be begging for pardon. But not from me.”

“I’m sorry? What is the meaning of this?”

“You tell me!” The boy is blustering. Pugnacious expostulation, an empty show of bravado. “You tell me what it means when a professor at this College behaves like you have!”

“And what, pray, is this behavior you’re speaking of?”

“Ervesa’s told me everything, you know. The game is up.”

“Indeed. And what has she told you?”

“That you raped her.”

A long silence ensues. So, Phinis Gestor thinks, the chickens come home to roost. The dragons return to their word walls. I should have guessed a girl like her would have many admirers, would-be suitors.

He hears Urag gro-Shub at the back of the library beginning to stir in annoyance at the commotion.

“What is your interest in this… allegation?”

He ignores that. “You think you’re so high and mighty,” he says. “You think you’re untouchable. Master Conjurer. Well, you can tear me apart with angry Atronachs if you like. You think you’ll be able to keep doing what you do when the other Masters hear about this?”

“That’s enough, Onmund. What do you want?”

“Don’t you tell me what’s enough.” Onmund is clearly flustered, but his voice lowers with menace. “You stay away from her. Don’t think you can just do whatever you like and get away with it. This College has rules, and you won’t get away with what you’ve done.” The anger flares in his blue eyes, and with a sweep of his arms he scatters the tomes onto the floor.

“That’s enough, I say!” Phinis rises to his feet. “It’s time for you to leave!”

“It’s time for you to leave!” Onmund says in singsong mocking mimicry. Urag’s heavy footfalls become louder as the Orc approaches the source of the disturbance. Onmund backs away, still glaring at Phinis Gestor. “See you around… Master Conjurer.” Then he is gone, leaving Phinis Gestor to placate an angry Urag by himself.

 _A champion,_ Phinis Gestor thinks to himself. _The maiden, in her distress, has acquired a champion! And now he has issued me a challenge!_ His stomach churns.

On the next Tirdas, during his lecture, Ervesa is there – and so is Onmund, hovering protectively beside her. She is seated at the back, as is her habit.

There is usually a buzz of conversation from the students before the lecture commences, but today there is a hush. They glance backwards uneasily at Onmund and Ervesa… and at another figure, standing quietly nearby and leaning against a pillar. Brelyna Maryon, whose face gives nothing away as she stands and observes. They probably do not yet know what is afoot, but they can surely sense the tension.

What is there for him to do but grit his teeth and conduct his lecture?

“We come to the conclusion of this series of lectures concerning the Daedric Princes,” he says, plunging into his notes. “As you may recall, last week we spoke of Molag Bal, the Prince of Rape and Domination.” A tremendous pity, that this should have to be mentioned at all, but it would seem odd if he did not. At the moment, he finds himself unable to improvise.

“We have discussed at length the nature of the seventeen foremost Daedric Princes. Who will recapitulate the major points we have covered?”

Silence. His gaze roves over the assembled students, and alights on Ervesa. She is usually a busy writer. Today, she looks thin and exhausted as she huddles over her empty parchments. _My poor little heiress!_ His heart goes out to her. _Shivering little beauty, whom I have held against my breast!_

“Very well, I shall summarize for everyone’s benefit.

“One: the ones who are ‘not-our-ancestors’ are immutable, incapable of changing their basic natures; even those with a reputation for caprice, such as Clavicus Vile or Sheogorath, behave in ultimately predictable patterns that are woven into their very natures. Molag Bal cannot, at any time, decide to usurp the place of Mara and become a patron of parental or familial love. Hircine, being concerned solely with the proto-mythic trope of the hunt, will never succor farmers or merchants, or indeed anyone not engaged in some form of predatorial pursuit. Nocturnal cannot arrange to trade places with Azura and decide to adhere to a diurnal schedule, with Azura becoming the Mistress of Night. And so on.

“Two: following upon that understanding, we see that the oft-cited reference book _Aedra and Daedra_ is grossly in error; the dichotomy of stasis and change does not map properly onto the Aedra-Daedra dichotomy. The apparent ‘corruption’ introduced by the Daedra into our world is, properly understood, not indicative of true change in the radical sense, but only of a certain range of variation already factored into the framework of laws governing Mundus. Creation, evolution and metamorphosis are all impossible to the Daedra, closed roads that they may not traverse. That is why they look at our innovations and inventions with an unending envy. On this last point, at least, the author of _Aedra and Daedra_ is correct.

“Three: to be within a Daedric Realm is in fact to be within the Prince himself, or herself. There is no sense in which one may successfully ‘invade’ a Plane of Oblivion and defeat the Prince who created it, as some fantastical adventure or heroic exploit; such a notion is so ludicrous that words should not be expended upon the exercise of ridiculing it. Some of you still have queries about this point, as we discussed last week, citing the historical examples of the events surrounding the Planemeld during the Second Era, and of the Champion of Cyrodiil’s actions in closing Oblivion Gates during the Oblivion Crisis at the end of the Third Era. I believe I assigned some additional reading on this topic, but further discussion will have to wait for some future series of lectures dealing specifically with the nature of Oblivion, not the Princes.”

They will not have done the reading, in any case. He is familiar with the students he gets, and has long since ceased to be surprised at the depth of their cherished ignorance. When it comes to matters of deep learning they may as well be young chicks hatched yesterday. So he does not expect much from them, apart from good-natured participation, which with some luck he can attempt to guide towards some degree of understanding, some simulation of scholarship.

But today he does not get that participation. Instead, there is only a dogged silence that palpably organizes itself around the seated pair of Onmund and Ervesa. The icy blue eyes stare implacably at him; the ruby eyes beside are downcast, hidden under a fringe of hair.

He plows on. “Today, as a postscript to this lecture series, I invite all of you to consider one intriguing possibility. In some circles, what I am about to say is considered heretical, and highly provocative; but we here at this College have never shied away from the rigorous testing of controversial ideas in the crucible of reasoned critique and logic-based argumentation.” He is riffing, saying words only for the sake of saying them, to fill in the conspicuous gaps of silence that threaten to overwhelm the proceedings.

“To wit, I invite you to consider the claims made by the would-be destroyer of Tamriel, Mankar Camoran, during the last days of the Third Era: that Nirn – or Tamriel as Mankar Camoran preferred to say, though the two terms are strictly speaking not interchangeable – is in fact a Daedric Realm, the Prince of which is the Missing God Lorkhan, called Shor by the Nords and many other names besides by different peoples throughout history.”

He had expected perhaps a sharp intake of breath from several more expressive students, maybe one or two cries of outrage from a few of the Imperials with long family histories stretching back to the days of Martin Septim. From a few of the brighter, more engaged students he could reasonably expect some attempt to grapple with this thesis.

There is only some awkward fidgeting from the assembled throng. By now they surely feel the current flowing between himself and their senior Onmund. It is as though he has addressed Onmund alone, and on cue Onmund comes to life and responds, like a Draugr sentry who has been alerted to the proximity of an intruder.

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not a Daedroth. We’re mortal beings. If we’re in a Daedric Realm, then why do the Princes envy us like you said?”

“Precisely. Excellent counterpoint. The contention is that we are motes of consciousness in the inconceivably vast mind of Lorkhan, whom we are unable to forget despite all the attempts throughout the Ages to make us do so, or to vilify his memory by shaping him via mythopoesis as a mere trickster. The unique nature of Lorkhan as First Witness to the separation of Anu and Padomay may serve in some preliminary way to explain the observable differences between ourselves and the entities we are accustomed to calling ‘Daedra’. If we attempt to extrapolate this hypothesis further, then Lorkhan must be the Prince of _something._ What is this something? What is Lorkhan’s essential nature?”

Onmund hesitates. He would like to press his intuition, Phinis Gestor sees. He would like to show that he has not spent all these years at the College for nothing, that despite the other mages in his cohort graduating and moving out into the wider world – Brelyna Maryon, J’zargo, the Dragonborn herself – he too has some intellectual growth to show for his efforts.

But no – Phinis is asking too much of Onmund. Here in this Hall, with the attention of the entire class on him, with Ervesa Sadras sitting silently beside him, the words will not come. He shakes his head.

It is Brelyna Maryon, leaning against her pillar, who answers.

“The Cloven Duality that comprises the ongoing dialogue that is Nirn,” she says. “Freedom-Limitation-Possibility. The Gray Maybe.”

He nods in her direction. “Precisely. Would you care to elaborate further? Why are there three elements to this ‘Cloven Duality’ you mention, and what are they? What is this ‘Gray Maybe’ you speak of? In what sense can we consider Nirn itself to be a ‘dialogue’, as you put it?”

One of the sharpest, most brilliant minds to have ever passed through this College, Phinis reflects. She has only grown more impressive after all these years. But now, she falls silent again and shakes her head slightly, still watching him. “Forgive me, Professor. I did not mean to interrupt your lecture.” Her face is still inscrutable.

He is suddenly sick at heart. He tells them to consider the input their alumnus has given, and encourages them to take those phrases as stimuli for further independent research. A few nod dumbly; the rest simply scribble a few careless notes, writing down some version of what Brelyna just said that is doubtlessly abbreviated to the point of inaccuracy.

It is too abstruse for them, too recondite a topic. Mankar Camoran is dead and gone, slain by an ancient unknown hero, his great project defeated by the noble sacrifice of the last Septim emperor. What use do people today have for the radical notion that Nirn itself is a Daedric Realm, that every living person is a walking unrealized avatar of Infinite Possibility? What do they care about CHIM, the endeavor of the Tower, looking at the Wheel sideways, the secret of existence that Lorkhan discovered? What do they care that Mundus itself is Lorkhan’s great failure, which he deliberately committed together with the Aedra so that all mortals would know the way to success? Are the Talos devotees among them even cognizant that this was precisely what their man-god was supposed to have accomplished?

They slowly trickle out of the Hall of the Elements, still hushed and subdued, casting uncertain glances behind them at the principal members of a tableau they only half-realized was in place. Ervesa, Onmund, Brelyna… himself.

Only then does Brelyna speak. “The conception of a thing,” she says, as if thinking aloud, “is in the same moment the conception of its negation, not merely its opposite. When there first came to be ‘something’, there also came to be ‘nothing’. To imagine freedom is to simultaneously imagine limitation. The act of creation is also the act of destruction, replacing what-was with what-is. And in a somewhat more prosaic sense…” Her voice drops. “With power must also come curtailment of power. In other words… responsibility.”

Phinis Gestor does not speak. For all his towering intellect, he cannot devise an appropriate response. Instead, he turns silently and leaves the Hall, feeling three pairs of eyes bore into the back of his head as he walks away.

On Fredas, Ervesa is not at his lecture, nor is she anywhere to be found. Faralda passes him a small slip of parchment: the student Ervesa Sadras has withdrawn from the College of Winterhold, with immediate effect.

While walking across the courtyard, Phinis Gestor is accosted by a stranger: a harried-looking Dark Elf man, well-dressed and clearly wealthy. “Master Gestor! Master Phinis Gestor!”

He stops, and waits patiently for the inevitable. The man comes to a halt in front of him, panting slightly. “Master Gestor, do you have a moment to talk? My name is Talvur, Talvur Sadras. I’m the father of Ervesa Sadras, a student here at your College. Do you know of her?”

“Yes.”

“Master, I don’t suppose you’re aware, but my daughter has suddenly informed us that she no longer wishes to be a student here. I wonder if you could see your way clear to helping us. She is a good student, my daughter, she is highly intelligent, and talented with magicka… all our family have always been… and now she says she is going to give it all up. It comes as a terrible shock to us.”

“I’m not sure I understand the situation.”

“She tells us she wishes to leave the College and strike out in the world on her own. As… as some sort of adventurer, a sellsword! We are finding this to be utterly baffling. Just… incomprehensible. I wonder if… if perhaps you can talk some sense into her? It just seems an awful waste…”

The Dunmer standing in front of him is the head of one of the Five Great Houses of Morrowind. Phinis Gestor says, “My lord, have you asked Ervesa about the reasons behind her decision?”

“She doesn’t speak any sense! She says something about wanting to define her own limitations, to seek freedom on her own terms, not to be at the mercy of others… Please, Master Gestor, call me Talvur. She has such respect for you – ever since coming here she has written to us about the various professors here at the College, and she has mentioned you a few times by name, telling us how interesting your lectures are compared to the other teachers here. Perhaps… perhaps if you were to talk to her?”

“My lo- Master Talvur… serjo… I am not sure if I am the right person to speak to your daughter.”

“Oh, but you surely are! As I have said, Master Gestor, she has such respect for you.”

Respect? Friend Talvur, you are out of date, serjo. Your daughter has lost all respect for me by now, with good reason. That is what he ought to say. Instead, he says, “I’ll see what I can do.” Then he bids Talvur Sadras a polite farewell.

You are finished, he tells himself afterwards. _I’ll see what I can do,_ indeed. Talvur Sadras will not forget this conversation, with its lies and evasions. This is how your life will end, Phinis Gestor – a Morag Tong blade at his neck in the deep of night.

For the whole of the following week, attendance at his lectures is sparse. Only the meekest, most docile and most reclusive students attend. There can only be one reason: the story is out.

Again, while walking across the courtyard he is hailed. “Master Gestor! Phinis Gestor!”

He turns, to accept his fate.

There are several students milling about, and they stop to watch and listen as Talvur Sadras comes to stand before him. Colette Marence has just finished a lecture and is leaving the Hall of the Elements – she too stops in her tracks, lips parted in amazement.

“Master Gestor,” Talvur says, his eyes and voice flint-hard. _“Professor._ You may be a very knowledgeable mage and all. But what you have done is not right.” He shakes his head jerkily. “It is not right.”

Everyone stands in silence as Talvur raises his voice. 

“We send our children here because we trust the College’s good reputation. Savos Aren was the last full Archmage here, and this College used to be populated mostly by our people. If we can’t trust you, then whom can we trust? I never thought I was sending my daughter into a nest of vipers. No, Master Gestor, you may be mighty in the ways of magic, and have a lot of power and wisdom and all that, but by Nerevar if I were you I would be very ashamed of myself indeed. If I’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick now’s your chance to tell me so, but I see from the look on your face that I haven’t.”

Now is his chance to speak. But what could he possibly say? A viper: how can he deny it? What defense could he possibly mount?

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice coming out as a whisper. “I have business to attend to.” Like a draugr he turns and walks stiffly away.

Talvur does not strike him down, as well he might. Instead, his voice follows him, echoing across the courtyard, reverberating around the pillars. “Phinis Gestor! This is not the end of it! You cannot escape this! You will answer for what you have done, I tell you now!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #MeToo

Things at the College can sometimes move with surprising dispatch. The following Morndas, an Apprentice knocks on his door and wordlessly hands him a note. It is from Faralda, College Rector, and informs him that a complaint has been lodged against him, accusing him of a violation of the College’s Code of Conduct with respect to a student. He is requested and required to contact acting-Archmage Tolfdir at his earliest convenience and arrange to attend a formal Committee of Inquiry to look into the charges.

He sits and reads the message with his heart hammering unpleasantly, over and over again, until his concentration fails and he gets up to pace his room.

This is not entirely unexpected, but neither is it something he can greet with equanimity. Ervesa Sadras would not have undertaken this action herself, he is certain. Clearly she was already of a mind to let it all go, leave the College and strike out on her own into the world. Her influential father would have been the one, perhaps acting upon the advice of Onmund, or Brelyna. Rather the latter than the former, he fancies, since he considers Onmund likely to be less conversant with the options for redress offered by the College. They would have prevailed upon her, worn her will down until she acquiesced, then walked with her together with her father to Faralda’s antechamber and office.

“We would like to lodge a complaint,” he imagines Talvur Sadras saying, stiffly and importantly. Ervesa would have been flanked by him and by Brelyna, who might have held her arm as a gesture of support, silently bolstering her resolve.

“About what?” Faralda would say. “And against whom?”

Perhaps Talvur Sadras might have been inclined to put the charge across crudely. “One of your professors has raped my daughter!” No – that does not ring true. He would not have been so crass with his daughter right beside him. He would have coughed uncomfortably, glancing nervously at silent, withdrawn Ervesa, and delivered the accusation with more delicacy. Or Brelyna might have been the one to do it on his behalf.

“We accuse Master Phinis Gestor of victimizing a student, violating her person and inflicting grave physical and emotional harm upon her, abusing his status and power as a Professor of the College to do so.”

According to protocol, Faralda would respond, “You have thought this through? You are certain you wish to follow through with this?”

Answers, in the affirmative. Then, procedures. Documents produced. Signatures appended on parchment. The quill scratching away. First, the name of the accuser: Ervesa of House Sadras. Student, withdrawn. Then, a space for the name of the accused: Phinis Gestor, Master Conjurer-in-Residence. A space for the name of a neutral witness: Brelyna Maryon, Court Wizard of Windhelm, Visiting Fellow. The name written doubtlessly with a modest but elegant flourish. And finally, the name of the Rector formally acknowledging the lodging of the complaint: Faralda, Mistress Sorceress-in-Residence, Rector.

Their names at war, all written on lines that demarcate the boundaries of this fracas. He and Ervesa. Embroiled now in battle. Not lovers, but foes.

Tolfdir quickly assembles the Committee of Inquiry, which includes Faralda, Colette Marence and Drevis Neloren. He himself, however, will take no direct part in the proceedings at this stage. He politely ushers Phinis to his chair, and then leaves the room.

“Well, it’s late and almost time for dinner,” Drevis begins, his teeth flashing in a brief smile, “so let’s be brief, shall we? Let’s see how we can best tackle this business.”

“You can start by telling me more about the complaint.”

“Very well. The complaint is laid against you by Ervesa of House Sadras, whose father is – I hardly need to tell you – Talvur Sadras. By the way, you might like to know, this case is starting to acquire some political overtones… so I would urge us all to try and handle this as delicately as we can. Talvur has been speaking to Jarl Kraldar, and he hasn’t been speaking very nicely, if you take my meaning. Jarl Kraldar has been very supportive of the College, but still he can’t claim to have any jurisdiction over us at all. Yet House Sadras is, to be frank, responsible for much of the renewed trade and immigration that’s the lifeblood of Winterhold these days. So… if we don’t handle this carefully, there could be… repercussions.”

Drevis pauses and clears his throat. Colette Marence picks up the thread.

“According to eyewitness accounts from the other students, some Novices and Apprentices among them,” she says, flipping over some sheets of parchments, “you were witnessed several times in recent weeks behaving in a manner towards Ervesa that some have described as… ‘importunate’. They have grounds to believe that you were pursuing her with… prurient interests in mind.” She sniffs, pursing her lips.

“It’s true. I have no defense.”

“Friends,” Drevis cuts in smoothly, “may I remind you, this is not the time or place to be going into substantive issues. This Committee of Inquiry is not empowered to conduct any investigation, nor make any recommendations as to courses of action. We are simply here to clarify procedure.” He glances quickly at the other two, who nod silently.

“First, let us assure you, Phinis, this matter will be handled with the utmost discretion. The names and privacy of all involved must be protected to the fullest extent possibe. Another Committee will be set up, with Tolfdir in attendance, and its function will be to determine if there are sufficient grounds for disciplinary measures. You will have the right to challenge its composition. There will be a hearing convened. Urag will keep formal records of that hearing. When that hearing has concluded, the Committee will make recommendations to the Rector. Until then, things are to proceed as before: courses and lectures will continue without interruption, the student has withdrawn from the College, and you are expected to refrain from any and all contact with her, Phinis. Have I left anything out? Faralda, Colette?”

They both shake their heads, tight-lipped.

“Listen, this is an unfortunate business, Phinis. Complicated and unfortunate. But I believe the College’s procedures and processes are fair, so let’s take it step by step, shall we?”

Drevis’s customary unctuous manner is especially irritating at this moment. Phinis opens his mouth to respond, but is forestalled by Drevis’s upraised hand. “Sleep on it, Phinis,” he says kindly. “You’ll be hearing from us.”

He leaves in a state of high dudgeon. He resents the condescending, patronizing way he has just been treated by his colleagues. Drevis’s assurances are empty, he knows; confidentiality is utterly impossible already. People talk. Gossip mills turn and churn, grinding reputations into dust. Groups of students avert their eyes and whisper behind their palms when they see him. Nirya, with whom he has hitherto had perfectly cordial relations, catches sight of him, and walks right past with an air of looking right through him as if he isn’t there. Only two Novices, new to the College, attend his lecture on the Eye of Magnus.

The gleeful condemnation from the community of the righteous. First the sentence, then the trial.

The next evening Drevis comes to seek him out, privately. The Master Illusionist-in-Residence pours himself a glass of Colovian brandy as they sit by the fire.

“A rough business, old friend. Listen, here’s my advice. Have a word with Brelyna Maryon. Tolfdir is thinking of including her on the second Committee of Inquiry, on account of her judicious character. If there’s anything that can be said in your defense, make sure she knows it first. It will be that much more persuasive if she’s the one to make at least part of your case for you during the hearing. Which she will, if she deems the information relevant. She’s very, very fair-minded.”

“Why do you persist in calling it a hearing? Surely we should say what it is. A trial.”

“Now, now.” Drevis chuckles nervously. “We’re not a Jarl’s court here, you know. We’re a College. This isn’t going to involve being sentenced to The Chill. Phinis, listen. I think we can sway House Sadras into accepting a private settlement. There’s precedent for this – they’re my people, after all, I know how things can work. Can be made to work. A private settlement, in which you give us certain undertakings, with which we can mollify House Sadras, persuade them to drop the matter. Minimize the damage. Let the scandal quietly blow over.”

“What kind of undertakings?”

“A formal personal apology. Perhaps a sum paid out of your funds in restitution. Whatever we can negotiate.”

“I pay her? As if I were a recalcitrant patron at a brothel? As if this was a business transaction gone sour?”

“Phinis, no need to be crude. I’m simply saying, we want as little damage as possible, all around. The girl, our hearts go out to her, of course. We will consult with her, try to achieve an understanding.”

“This is… dishonorable.” He feels light-headed – he has been imbibing too much brandy with his friend. “What you’re saying. We shouldn’t conduct the affair like this. May as well be out in the open. I won’t pay her as if she were a… a prostitute. I will make amends. I’ll do whatever they ask. But I won’t do it as you’re suggesting I do. It would be… dishonorable.”

“You’d better get to bed, old friend. Remember what I’ve told you. Really, this is just a matter of smoothing things over, letting it pass. What’s done is done, whatever it was. You don’t have to tell me what it was. But clearly it didn’t go well, and… Look, the girl’s young. Brelyna’s three times her age, you know, Ervesa Sadras is barely an adult by our reckoning. She needs… she needs good counsel, right now, at this stage in her life. Patience, sympathy, and good counsel. She’s got her whole future ahead of her. We can hope for the best, try to achieve the best possible result for everyone.”

As he sees Drevis out he asks dryly, “I don’t suppose you’ll be sitting on this second Committee?”

Drevis nods. “Of course I will. All the Masters and Mistresses will. And Brelyna,” he adds. “Most likely. Farewell, Phinis. Have a good night.”

That, he thinks, is precisely what he cannot have. He cannot see himself ever having a good night, henceforth.

But no; let him not indulge in self-pity. There is a way clear, Drevis is hinting. It will simply take time, time and patience. And possibly a pecuniary penance for his torrid turpitude. This is Skyrim, after all; in every Hold, the murder of a person incurs a penalty of a thousand septims. For the crime of rape, it varies from Hold to Hold: where a female Jarl holds sway – as in Morthal, The Rift, The Pale or Haafingar – the prescribed punishment can be very harsh indeed. But he has a lifetime of savings put by. It could indeed be resolved in the manner Drevis Neloren suggests: a formal apology, no less heartfelt for all that, accompanied by the gesture of a substantial indemnity.

When he closes his eyes he thinks of Ervesa’s, the rubies within rubies. How much gold are those rubies worth?

The hearing is convened a few days later, and it is Brelyna Maryon herself who comes to usher him to the Archmage’s quarters, where the Committee of Inquiry is already waiting in the Archmage’s ready-room. She tilts her head and nods a greeting at him. “Master Gestor. Follow me, will you please.”

He makes no attempt at conversation as they walk together, and neither does she. She is slender, but slightly larger of frame than Ervesa; a little broader around the shoulders, and she walks with a very different kind of gait. One who observed Brelyna and Ervesa side by side would have little trouble differentiating the two. Brelyna walks as if the world itself will make way for her, and when she turns her head from side to side it is as though she were accompanied by an invisible retinue ready to carry out her every command.

No, he thinks, he could never have tried to seduce Brelyna, even in her earlier days as a Novice. She would have eviscerated him with a few well-chosen words, if not with a dagger.

He is seated in a chair by himself, facing a panel of his colleagues and peers. Directly across from him sits acting-Archmage Tolfdir himself, Master Changer-in-Residence, who will chair the Committee. To the left of Tolfdir is Drevis Neloren, and Brelyna Maryon. To the right sit Faralda and Colette Marence. Seated a little to the back of the others is Urag gro-Shub, with a floating parchment and quill hovering in front of him.

He does not feel nervous. On the contrary, he suddenly feels very sure of himself. He has slept well and broken his fast with a simple and fortifying breakfast. He feels almost reckless. This is dangerous, he thinks. This is the complacence of a gambler, of a cocky fool who thinks he is about to put one over on Clavicus Vile and strike a winning deal. But he cannot find it in himself to care.

“Master Gestor,” Tolfdir says, opening the proceedings, “let me first explain the purpose and powers of this Committee, and the possible outcomes of this hearing. We are gathered here to hear your side of the matter at hand, and proceed to make a recommendation to the Rector’s office. As you can see, the Rector is also part of this Committee. Do you have any objection to this, or to anyone else whose participation you feel may be prejudicial to you?”

“I have no challenge in a legal sense,” he replies loftily. “I may have objections predicated upon other principles, but I suppose those are beyond your consideration.”

There is an uncomfortable shuffling all around. Urag’s enchanted quill scratches on the floating parchment. Urag himself is sitting silently, his arms folded across his chest. He appears to be dozing. “I think we had better restrict ourselves to the legal sense,” Tolfdir says. “You have no challenge to the makeup of this Committee. Have you any objection to the inclusion of Brelyna Maryon, currently a Visiting Fellow at the College, and empowered to observe the hearing on behalf of the student body and Jarl Kraldar’s government?”

“I have no fear of the observer. I have no fear of the Jarl’s government.”

“Very well. Let us come to the matter at hand. There has been a complaint made against you by Ervesa Sadras, until lately a student of the College. We have summarized the contents of the complaint, and everyone here possesses a copy. Have you read it? Master Gestor?”

“Am I to understand that Ervesa Sadras herself will not be appearing in person?”

“Ervesa appeared before this Committee yesterday. Let me reiterate, Master Gestor: this is not a trial. This is a hearing, an inquiry. Our rules are not those of a court of law. Does this pose a problem for you?”

“No.”

“Very well. I ask again: have you familiarized yourself with the substance of the accusation against you?”

“This is a farce. A waste of time. I am sure we all have better things to do than to rehash the details of a story over which there will be no dispute. I plead guilty. Pass sentence, and let us all get on with our lives.”

Drevis leans over and whispers urgently to Tolfdir. There is a quiet exchange.

“Master Gestor,” Drevis says, “I must repeat what Master Tolfdir has told you. This is not a trial. These are not legal proceedings. This body currently gathered here has no power to make any decisions. We are here to listen to your side of the story, and then make a recommendation to the Rector’s office. Would you like to adjourn and seek out someone to represent your interests?”

“I do not need representation. I can represent myself perfectly well. Do I understand you correctly, that despite the plea I have just entered we must still proceed with this… hearing?”

“Phinis, this is a chance for you to state your position.”

“I have stated it. I am guilty.”

“Of what?”

“Of whatever I am charged with.”

Faralda breaks in. “We are talking in circles.” She casts a look of open dislike at Phinis Gestor. “Master Gestor, what exactly do you say you are guilty of?”

“Of everything Ervesa Sadras avers.”

“You say you accept her statement, but have you actually read it?”

“I have no need to read it. I do not wish to read it. I know of no reason why she should lie. I accept it.”

“But would it not be more prudent to actually read it before accepting it?”

“There are things more important than prudence.”

Faralda frowns. Colette Marence utters a short, sharp laugh, and leans back in her chair. She says, “It would seem we have a duty to protect Master Gestor from himself.” She smiles sardonically.

Brelyna Maryon unexpectedly speaks up. “Master Gestor, have you attempted to seek forgiveness from Ervesa’s family?”

He bristles at the tone, the question, the speaker. “I have not. Nor do I intend to. I have been told to refrain from seeking contact with her. I mean to uphold that restriction upon my movements. Besides, forgiveness is a purely private matter, not a subject for discussion at this… hearing.” He turns to Tolfdir. “I have made my plea. Is there any reason this debate should continue?”

There are muttered remarks all round, whispered behind raised hands. Brelyna Maryon, in particular, is speaking the most stridently, and whatever she is saying to Tolfdir appears to cause Drevis Neloren to wince visibly, whereas Faralda and Colette seem to be nodding vigorously in agreement.

Tolfdir turns back to him. “Very well. Let us consider your plea. Master Gestor, do you accept the truth of the accusations against you?”

“I accept whatever Ervesa Sadras alleges.”

“Brelyna Maryon, you have something to say?”

“Yes. I wish to register an objection to Master Gestor’s responses, which I regard as fundamentally evasive. He says he accepts the charges. Yet when we attempt to pin him down on exactly what it is he is actually accepting, we are met only with subtle mockery. To me, this suggests that he is accepting the charges only in name. In a case with overtones like this, the wider community is entitled…”

He cannot let this go. “There are no overtones in this case!” he snaps.

“… is entitled to know,” Brelyna continues, unruffled, her voice riding over his, “what specifically Master Gestor is acknowledging, and therefore what specifically he is being censured for.”

“If he is censured,” Tolfdir says.

“If he is censured. We fail in our duty here, if we fail to be crystal clear in our minds, and crystal clear in our recommendations, about what Master Phinis Gestor is acknowledging and being censured for,” she repeats.

“I believe in our own minds we are crystal clear, Brelyna,” Tolfdir says dryly. “The question is, whether Master Gestor is crystal clear in his mind.”

“Exactly. You have precisely expressed what I wished to say.”

It would be wiser to keep silent. He does not keep silent. “What I feel in my own mind is my own business, Brelyna, not yours. Frankly, what you want from me is a confession, not a response. Well, I make no confession. I put forth a plea, as is my right to do so. Guilty. I enter a plea of guilt. That is as far as I am prepared to go.”

“Master Tolfdir, I must protest. Master Gestor cannot hide behind empty technicalities. He pleads guilty, but I ask myself, does he accept his guilt, or is he simply going through the motions hoping that time will bring with it forgetfulness? If he is simply going through the motions, then I urge that we impose the severest penalty.”

“Let me remind you again,” Tolfdir says, “that we are not empowered here to impose penalties.”

“Then I urge that we _recommend_ the severest penalty. Master Gestor must be dismissed with immediate effect and forfeit all the benefits and privileges pertaining to his position at the College. Furthermore, he must make restitution to House Sadras according to the wishes of Ervesa Sadras.”

“Phinis.” This is coming from Drevis, who holds up a placating hand to Brelyna sitting beside him. “Phinis… are you sure you are handling this situation in the best way? Master Tolfdir, I would like to remind everyone that before this hearing commenced, it was my earnest advice that we should not proceed against our colleague in a coldly formalistic way. Phinis, are you sure you don’t wish to request a recess and give yourself a little more time to… reflect?”

Phinis Gestor is aware of the silent outrage in Brelyna’s eyes – and in Faralda’s, and Colette’s – as he replies. “Reflect? What do I need to reflect on?”

“On the gravity of the situation. You stand to be expelled from the College. Not suspended. Expelled. That is no laughing matter.”

“Then what do you advise me to do? Remove what Brelyna Maryon calls the subtle mockery from my tone? Shed some appropriate tears of contrition? What will be enough to save me?”

“You may find this hard to believe, Phinis,” Tolfdir says, gently, “but we who are gathered here right now are not your enemies. We have been friends, colleagues. We are all fallible, we all have had weak moments, and we have all made mistakes. We are trying to find a way for you to continue with your career, your life’s work.”

Drevis joins in eagerly. “We would like to help you, Phinis, to find a way out of what must seem a nightmare at the moment.”

They are his friends. They want to help him end this nightmare. They know he has been weak. They accept his weakness. They do not want him thrown out of the College gates. They want him back in the Halls conducting his lectures. “In this chorus of goodwill,” he says, “I hear no female voices.”

Silence.

“Very well,” he says, “here is my confession. The story begins when I was taking a stroll around the courtyard, as was the young woman in question, Ervesa Sadras. Our paths chanced to cross, and we struck up a conversation. Subsequently I encountered her again down in Winterhold, when the Novices and Apprentices were enjoying their monthly visit. We proceeded in each other’s company to the Frozen Hearth, where I had a room for the weekend. Something stirred to life then, something which I shall not attempt to describe, not being a poet. Suffice it to say that Dibella’s touch was felt. After that, I was not the same.”

“Not the same?” Colette frowns, her brow furrowed.

“Not the same man. I was different. I had been… changed. I had become a slave of Dibella.”

“Is this the defense you are offering us?” Brelyna’s voice is high with incredulity. “An ungovernable impulse that was the work of a Divine?”

“I offer no defense. You asked me for a confession. I am giving it to the best of my ability. As for the impulse, allow me to scruple to say that it was not ungovernable. I have had many such impulses before over the course of my life, as I am sure we all have, and I am ashamed to say I have oftentimes succeeded in denying these impulses.”

“Don’t you think,” Tolfdir says cautiously, “that in our position as teachers here at the College… with a charge given to us… we come under an obligation to deny ourselves certain… gratifications? For the good of the College as a whole?”

“You would implement a ban on all intimacy?”

“Not as such. But certainly between teacher and student. There is an… imbalance of power. So, perhaps a ban on the mixing of power relations with sexual relations.”

Brelyna Maryon intervenes now. “We are failing to get to the heart of the matter,” she declares. “Master Gestor says he is guilty, but when we try to get more specificity, suddenly it is a chance romantic encounter on College grounds, followed by what would seem to be a tryst in Winterhold inspired by no less than Dibella. There is no mention of the non-consensual nature of the interaction, of the abuse and manipulation involved, and of the coercive atmosphere he subjected Ervesa Sadras to. I say it is futile to continue this verbal sparring with Master Gestor. We should rather take his plea at face value and proceed accordingly.”

Abuse and manipulation. From a Dunmer woman, that could be interpreted as high praise. Theirs is a unique culture – an entire culture that has returned to venerating Mephala the Webspinner, that propitiates Boethiah the Prince of Deception, that holds even the Bloodstone Molag Bal in some esteem. Ervesa is the daughter of a Great House – what possible inveiglement could he, an elderly cloistered College professor, bring to bear against a young Dunmer scion schooled from childhood in subtlety? Then he remembers that just the previous day, they have had a chance to meet Ervesa here, in this very room. He remembers the aura of vulnerability that attracted him so powerfully. Yes, Ervesa has already worked her magic on this Committee, even without malice aforethought.

“I tend to agree with Brelyna Maryon,” Colette puts in. “Unless there is something Master Gestor wishes to add, we should proceed to a decision.” Faralda nods.

“Before we do that,” Drevis says, “I would like to plead with Master Gestor one last time. Phinis, is there any form of statement that you would be prepared to subscribe to?”

“Why? What kind of statement? Why should I do this?”

“It would be extremely helpful to the College. It would help to bring some calm back to what has become a very unstable situation. We would ordinarily have preferred to resolve this matter purely within our own walls, but considering who the complainant…”

“The victim,” Brelyna interrupts.

“… the… victim… is, this case has acquired overtones far beyond the College grounds. Much is now beyond our control. All eyes in Winterhold and even some eyes beyond are on us, to see how the College handles this. All I’m saying, Phinis,” Drevis’s voice takes on a note of desperation, “is that we are trying our best to be fair to you, as well. We need to work out some kind of compromise that will allow you to keep your position here. That is why we would ask that you issue some kind of statement, so that we can recommend something less than the severest sanction.”

“You are asking me to dishonor myself, to humble myself and beg for clemency.”

“Phinis,” Tolfdir sighs. “It doesn’t help to sneer at our efforts. At the very least, please ask for an adjournment, as is your right, so that you may think things through.”

“What would the statement need to contain?”

“An admission that you were wrong,” Drevis replies readily.

“I have already given that. I have told you, I am guilty.”

“Don’t play games with us, Master Gestor,” Brelyna snaps at him. “There is a difference between pleading guilty to a charge, and admitting you were wrong, and you know it.”

“So that is what it will take to satisfy you?”

Brelyna turns again to the others. “I hope I do not speak out of turn, but we must not allow ourselves to be sidetracked yet again. We must not do things back to front. First, Master Gestor must offer his statement. Then we will consider if it constitutes mitigation. We should not be negotiating beforehand what the statement will contain. It must be his own words, his sincere expression of his thoughts. Then we can see if it comes from the heart.”

“And now you will arrogate upon yourself the power to see if my words come truly from my heart?”

“We will listen to the tone and words you use. We will determine if you are truly contrite.”

“Very well. I took advantage of my position, vis-à-vis Ervesa Sadras. It was wrong of me and I regret it. Are you satisfied now?”

“Don’t ask if it is good enough for _us,_ Master Gestor. The question is whether it is good enough for _you._ Does it reflect your sincere feelings?’

Phinis shakes his head. “I have done as you demand. I have said the words. And now you want still more. Now you want to know if I am speaking from my heart. This is preposterous. This is beyond the scope of the law. Let us return to playing this by the book. I am guilty. That is as far as I am prepared to go.”

“Phinis. Hear me out. Please.”

Drevis’s voice cuts through a brief storm of interjections from Faralda, Colette and Brelyna. Tolfdir sits silently, his face careworn. Urag still looks as though he is sleeping, but his eyes are half-open and his ears are pricked.

“Phinis. Listen. Please. I took some liberties.” He takes out a scroll and unfurls it. “This statement may suffice to satisfy all parties sufficiently, if you are prepared to subscribe to it. Then we may proceed to recommend to the Rector – to Faralda here – that you be asked to take a leave of absence. A year. Or longer. At Master Tolfdir’s discretion, in lieu of any explicit direction from the Dragonborn in this matter, you may return to teaching duties when a suitable time has passed.”

“What is the statement?”

Drevis clears his throat and recites. “I, Phinis Gestor, acknowledge without reservation the serious abuse of Ervesa Sadras’s rights as a student of the College of Winterhold, as well as the abuse of the authority delegated to me by the College. I have committed actions that have gravely assailed the honor of House Sadras, and of Ervesa herself. I hereby offer my complete and sincere apologies to the College, to House Sadras, and most of all to Ervesa Sadras, whom I have deeply wronged. It is my wish for the pain I have caused to be redeemed by whatever appropriate penalty will be imposed upon me.”

“What is this penalty? What does that mean?”

“What I’ve told you. A leave of absence. Not permanent exile, not irrevocable dismissal. Perhaps a sum of gold as a fine, payable to the Jarl who will disburse it as he sees fit.”

“That’s it? That’s the statement?”

“Yes. If you subscribe to it. It will have the force of a plea in mitigation, and the Rector will… Faralda?”

Looking as though she is sucking on a sour fruit, Faralda says, “The Rector’s office will be prepared to accept it in that spirit.”

“What spirit?”

“A spirit of repentance.”

“So we’re back to this.”

Phinis Gestor stands up. All eyes are on him. “I have told you already. This repentance business. It is out of bounds. I won’t do it. A legal charge is being brought against me. I make a legal response to it. That is all it should be. Repentance is neither here nor there. It does not belong to this realm of discourse.”

“Phinis, you are not being instructed to repent,” Tolfdir says sternly. “I am not the Dragonborn. I cannot listen to the sky, nor can I look within you to see your soul. What goes on in your heart is dark to us. You are being asked to _issue a statement.”_

“I am being asked to issue an apology which may not be sincere?”

“The criterion,” Tolfdir says, rubbing his temples, “is not whether you are sincere. The criterion is whether you are prepared to publicly acknowledge your fault and take steps to remedy it.”

“Now we are truly splitting hairs. You have charged me. I have pleaded guilty. That is all you need from me.”

“No.” Brelyna’s voice is cold and hard. “Not all.” She stands up as well. “We need more from you, Master Gestor. Not a great deal more, but _more._ The onus is on you to give us that.”

“I am unable to comply with your demand.”

“Phinis… we can’t go on protecting you from yourself.” Drevis is now slumped in his chair, looking as fatigued as Tolfdir. “Do you need time to rethink? Do you wish us to reconvene at a later session?”

“No.”

“Very well.” Acting-Archmage Tolfdir rises to his feet, his shoulders bowed with an invisible weight. “Then this hearing is concluded. Master Phinis Gestor… you will be hearing from the Rector.”


	5. Chapter 5

At Dawnstar, Madena is waiting for him at the pier. 

She has changed little with the passage of the years, he thinks, as he pays the boatman and steps off the rickety, barely sea-worthy vessel. Perhaps a few more lines on her face, a certain attenuation of spirit that comes with long renunciation. Madena had been one of the finest Battlemages in the ranks of the Legion, serving with distinction in the Great War, before she made the choice to give everything up. Most unwisely, in Phinis’s estimation. He has not changed his mind since their divorce; he doubts she has changed hers.

“Phinis,” she says, by way of welcome. “You never visited. You never so much as wrote.”

“My apologies,” he says, as the silent Dremora porter steps forward out of the pocket realm with his belongings. “I’ve been busy. College life, you know.”

“Busy.” Her lips twist. “Evidently.” She turns. “Come on. Let’s get you settled in.”

Their feet crunch on the snow as they walk uphill. “People talk, you know,” Madena says, over her shoulder. “Even here, I hear things. Is it true?”

“And what exactly did you hear?”

“So it’s true. What in Oblivion were you thinking, Phinis? Am I allowed to tell you how stupid you’ve been?”

“You are not.”

“I’m telling you anyway. This thing you’ve done, it’s stupid. Stupid and ugly. I know you feel you need to do something about sex, but this is hardly the way to go about it. I mean, did you even stop to think about how she would feel? How old is she, your inamorata? She’s a Dunmer, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. She’s… not far beyond her eighteenth winter, I should think.”

“By the Nine. Phinis, are you mad? A young girl like that, and an old man like you? Did you think she’d enjoy it, take pleasure in it? Do you think she finds it good to watch you in the middle of… Do you ever think about that?”

He makes no reply.

“Don’t think to find sympathy from me. Or from anyone else. Not in this day and age, with half of Skyrim’s Jarls being women and the Dragonborn too, and Elisif about to be acclaimed High Queen by the next Moot. Your honor lies in shreds, and I think that’s the way it’ll have to stay. Most of the townsfolk here may not ever come to hear about it, and for old times’ sake I’ll try to help keep it that way, but as for anyone with a whisper of a connection to the mage community, you can bet they’ll have heard something. Really, Phinis, how could you?”

She has now adopted an all-too familiar tone, a tone he last heard in the last years of their married life: passionate recrimination. But she has a point. He is fully aware of all the points she has just made; he is fully in agreement. That is why, after all, he made those visits to Sanguine’s realm. That is the function of those particular Daedric servants: to put up with his unlovely ecstasies.

“Anyway,” she says, pointing, “that’s the house. You can visit the White Hall with me after you’ve put your things away and get the papers drawn up. Rent isn’t high, and the lease is decently long, but don’t expect much in the way of luxury up here. This is Dawnstar, not Wayrest. Did you not think of returning to Wayrest?”

“The journey would be too costly. And I hear that prices there are sky-high these days. Even my substantial savings would not last me long if I were to live there. In any case, I’ve grown rather accustomed to the bracing climate of Skyrim’s northern regions. There is something… purifying… about the landscape on the northern coastline. I’m used to it, by now. I would miss it.”

She sniffs. “You always did romanticize Skyrim just a tad too much. Really, are you sure this isn’t some form of self-flagellation for you? You’re not punishing yourself by coming here to stay with me in this icy wasteland?”

Dawnstar’s fortunes have steadily and unrelentingly declined for many years. These days, it is virtually neglected as a port of call by merchants; most prefer to put in at Solitude or Windhelm, and most of them opt to do so under the auspices of the East Empire Company for the advantageous reduction in port duties. The mines are running dry, quicksilver and iron alike. At the very border of The Pale, to the south, stands Heljarchen Hall, home of the Dragonborn’s own Shield Maidens, but it lies in such close proximity to Whiterun that economically it functions as part of Whiterun Hold, not of The Pale. Jarl Brina Merilis has won governance of the most barren and least prosperous Hold in all Skyrim. Is this atonement that he’s performing, then, he who still trembles at the memory of the sybaritic delights and debaucheries to be found in the Myriad Planes of Revelry? Does some part of him imagine that adopting a semblance of privation and penury will function as penance?

“What do your duties consist of, in the main?” he asks, to deflect the question. Madena is Court Wizard of Dawnstar.

She shrugs. “With the Civil War and dragon attacks over, there isn’t as much to do as before, thankfully. I’m a healer, now. Jarl Brina knows better than to harass me about using battle magic again, as Skald did before her. Good riddance to that old windbag. I do what healing I can, though Frida – that’s our local herbalist – Frida’s the one who does most of it with her concoctions. Mainly I keep the crops healthy, and I try to be on hand when one of the miners has an accident. If I’m quick, then Frida has less of a miracle to perform with her potions.”

“It would seem there is little I can do to help you, then.”

She casts a sidelong glance at him. “There is… something else. Something I’ve been, well, helping with. Not part of my duties as such, but… never mind. You’ll have your mind on other things, I suppose. What’re your plans for now?”

“None as yet. When I have the time and inclination, perhaps I could settle down to continue my own research. Perhaps write another book, collate some of my old lecture material. Contribute to the common fund of scholarship across all Tamriel, as it were.”

“You still have those ambitions, I see.”

“More of an indulgence, Madena. Just something I can do to channel my… energies.” He does not say the obvious: if intellectual and magical pursuits were sufficient to sublimate his energies, he would not be here now in Dawnstar. “Well, one wants to leave something behind, as it were. Something for posterity.”

Madena makes no response to that. Posterity; something she has never been fond of contemplating. It is her personal burden to bear, and Phinis has expended enough effort in the past trying to persuade her that she need not torment herself so. Her actions during the War likely saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives. Every Thalmor soldier she killed was an aversion of future atrocity: another knock on a door in the middle of the night, another citizen of the Empire dragged off to die in a Thalmor cell, another wagonload of prisoners for the Thalmor re-education camps. Yet she has never been able to see it as he does. He is consequentialist, utilitarian; she has put herself under a geas of a categorical imperative he has never brought himself to understand.

They arrive at the house that will be his lodgings in Dawnstar, and he has the Dremora unpack his belongings before returning to Oblivion. “You want to do less of that around here,” Madena observes. “This isn’t the College. Folk are superstitious around these parts, none more than the native Nords.”

He gives her a wan smile. “I hardly think I will have occasion to perform much conjuring here.”

“You may be surprised. We do still get the occasional boundary infringement by a Giant. The town watch are usually enough to drive one off, but then I have to pick up the pieces afterwards. Not literally.” She pauses. “Not usually literally,” she amends. "And there’s the occasional pirate raid, although truthfully the Blood Horkers seem more interested in raiding the tavern than burning and pillaging the town. But on the whole, life is quiet here.”

A quiet life, away from the public eye. His life at the College could have been characterized as quiet, too, but this is a different sort of quiet, of course. The tranquility of retirement, albeit one enforced upon him. He should be grateful, as a deer is to escape a hunter’s trap. And he is, to a degree. It is not quite gratitude he feels, however; it is an oddly hollow relief, and a strange sort of excitement. The vituperative ugliness at the College could have dragged on further; it is a mercy that it has not. He has gotten off relatively lightly – he has only lost everything he has ever had. That is all. He no longer has a reputation to worry about. The worst has already happened, and he is here. A new home, a fresh start. His future is malleable, his own slice of _creatia_ for him to shape.

He looks down at his hands, and feels incredibly wry about himself. He is the furthest thing from a Daedric potentate there is. He is not about to set himself up as some kind of outlaw warlock in an abandoned tower on the outskirts of town. There would be something terribly sordid about that manner of deploying his power, something tawdry and degenerate. He is no Divayth Fyr, despite what the sanctimonious, censorious Brelyna Maryon may think of him.

The papers for his tenancy and status as a tax resident of The Pale are drawn up, and the Jarl’s Steward – a burly Nord man named Horik Halfhand – formally welcomes him to Dawnstar. Something opaque to Phinis passes between Horik and Madena, some frisson of interaction; ah, he thinks, his ex-wife has not been idle. There are still some embers left in the hearth. And whyever not? He does not in the least begrudge her that, even with her advanced years. He sees the way Madena shakes her head slightly and walks away from Horik, tight-lipped. He silently observes the way Horik narrows his eyes and stares at Madena’s retreating back. A lover’s tiff? Perhaps on account of his arrival?

Friend Horik, you have nothing to fear from me, he wants to say. She and I are a thing long past; I have no intention of rekindling anything with Madena beyond mere friendship. He likes the gruff, burly, battle-scarred old soldier. Honest hands, performing honest work in service to the Legion, to the Empire. A simple creed for simple pure-hearted men. The crude but genuine camaraderie among the ranks of the enlisted. He is a man of the book, a warrior of parchment and quill, but he can still feel appreciation for the men of the sword, the warriors who fight so that scholars like him may spend their lives in study. Men of patience, honor and resilience. Above all honor.

He and Madena have dinner together at Windpeak Inn. The tavern singer, a Nord woman named Karita, has a voice and singing style that Phinis Gestor must charitably describe as “distinctive”. Yet it is appealing in its own way, brimming with energy, passion and vitality. Perhaps excessively so. But this is the way these Nords have always lived, here in their homeland, he thinks: unhibited, imbibing life to the full. Live every day as if it were your last, because it might well be; and then an eternity in Sovngarde awaits, for those of their number fortunate enough to perish in battle, or die with sufficient honor accumulated. Or at least, that is how he thinks it goes, for their people.

Windpeak Inn is rowdy and full of boisterous good cheer; as a spectator on the sidelines he finds himself smiling in sympathetic response. Karita’s enthusiasm makes up for her other shortcomings as a performer, he thinks. Her dress showcases her fullness of limb, roundness of shoulder, broadness of back, grace of movement. The low-cut front exposes a truly impressive decolletage, the likes of which even Sanguine’s minions would be hard-pressed to match…

He feels Madena’s hand on his. When he turns, he sees a warning in her eyes. “She’s Thoring’s daughter,” she informs him, referring to the innkeeper. “Divines’ sakes, Phinis, watch yourself. This isn’t the College anymore.”

His smile fades, along with the joie de vivre that was beginning to rise within him. Indeed. His ex-wife is correct. Here, and henceforth, he must do his best to quell his lurches of lust, to disperse the ripples of desire, to make his natural impulses quiescent. He has been deceiving himself, to think that already his College life was receding into the past. It will not, for some time yet. He must needs learn patience, and exercise more discretion than he has hitherto been accustomed to. He will not find it easier as time goes by; it will only become more difficult to “nurse unacted desires” as an old poem put it.

“Yes,” he says, “this isn’t the College anymore. And we should drink to that.” He gives a little laugh, and raises his mug of ale ironically.

“Was it that bad, towards the end?” Madena asks. Her eyes are not unkind.

“It wasn’t pleasant. Rather nasty, in fact. But that’s behind me now.”

“Could you have found some way to stay on?”

“I’m not entirely sure I would have wanted to, in any case. I was becoming less and less of a teacher every day, and it was affecting me as a scholar. Difficult to build rapport, after all, with reluctant minds. Besides, they wanted a show from me, a farce.”

“Who did? The administration?”

“Yes, my erstwhile colleagues. They wanted a public demonstration from me. Recantation, self-criticism, a display of remorse and repentance. I didn’t find it in myself to oblige by accepting the compromise they offered.”

“So you stood your ground and they stood theirs, was that the way of it?”

“Something like that.”

“You were always so unbending when it came to matters of pride.” She sniffs. “I suppose there’s no chance at all you could go back, now?”

“None. Unless there were to be a complete change in management. But even then… no. The sentence is final.”

“I see.”

“Not that I am complaining. I want to be clear about this. I accept the sentence. It’s not as though it were an unfair sentence, after all. I do regret it. And lacking any avenue for making reparations, I suppose I must… simply serve my time, as it were. And live out the rest of my life. In whatever dishonor has accrued to me.”

“Such a shame. You did have quite a career.” Madena sighs and shakes her head. “Such a pity.”

No, he wants to say. Reserve the pity for those who deserve it. There is surely a limit to how much pillorying he lets himself bear, but he does not seek a tender touch at the moment. He does not feel himself worthy of it. In this much, his soul can defiantly raise its head in a parody of pride, lay it on the executioner’s block by its own power.

Pride. Pride and honor. Often conflated. Often dissimilar, distinct. But often complementary.

“I think,” Madena says slowly, as Karita stops to wet her lips with mead before her next song, “you can help me, after all. With that other thing I mentioned before. It’ll give you something to do, if nothing else.”

He sees no reason to turn her down, and tells her as much. “What is this other engagement? What does it entail?”

“It’s something in your province, actually. Your particular field of expertise could prove very helpful. I’ll explain on the way - we’ll need to take a boat. It’s not far - it’s one of the ancient crypts in the area. The Nords call it Yngvild. I’ll come by tomorrow, after breakfast.”

“Very well. I shall be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madena and Horik are not in fact in any sort of romantic entanglement. That is Phinis Gestor drawing a hasty conclusion. As we know, in canon, Horik and Brina Merilis are a couple with disposition mutually set to 4. Horik and Madena have only a mildly adversarial relationship.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings.
> 
> This chapter contains a line borrowed from China Mieville's "Embassytown".

He has forgotten how cold the winds can be when they slice across one’s cheeks out on the open waters. With only flat sea for miles around and no geographical features of any kind to blunt the force of the wind, every chilling gust feels like the icy bite of a steel blade. He draws his inadequate hood more tightly about his face.

Across the boat from him, Madena shakes her head and makes noises of exasperation. “I warned you. But as usual, you wouldn’t listen. Stubborn old fool.”

The boatman pays no attention to their interactions, and concentrates on his strokes. He is a Nord, and like all his kindred he seems utterly immune to the cold, having opted to leave his arms and shins bare. The swishing is the only sound to be heard all around in the icy desolation of the Sea of Ghosts.

As the tomb called Yngvild comes gradually into view, Madena begins explaining.

“Some time ago, people started disappearing from Dawnstar. Young women, all of them. Bretons, Redguards, and even a few Nords. You may or may not know, Phinis, but we have a sizeable community of expatriates from High Rock and Hammerfell in Dawnstar. Mostly the families came here years ago to invest in various mining and forestry interests. They tend to be more well-to-do than the local Nord miners and fisherfolk, which does nothing to dampen local tensions, as you may imagine. But they wielded enough clout even with Skald the Elder, so when their daughters started vanishing the old Jarl launched an investigation.

“It didn’t turn up anything, though the guards were sent traipsing all over the coastline to the east and west of the town. But then, well, the Dragonborn came by, with a couple of companions. I forget who – two of the Sacred Band, the Eight and One. I remember that much. Anyway, they discovered what was really going on, which was truly sickening. Some Altmer necromancer called Arindol or Arondil, something or the other, had set himself up in Yngvild, which as you can see we’re approaching right now.

“He wasn’t just a necromancer. Turns out he was also a necrophiliac. Convenient for him. But terrible for the missing women who were his victims. He’d not only been… sating… his foul desires on the corpses of the ancient Nord female warriors interred inside – he’d been kidnapping and killing the women of Dawnstar. And much worse besides: he then turned them into ectoplasmic remnants.”

Phinis cannot hide the thrill of shock that runs through him at this pronouncement. It shows in his expression. Madena nods grimly.

“Like ghosts, but not really,” she says, ruminating. She is not explaining this for his benefit; he knows perfectly well what she is talking about, and she is well aware. “Worse than being ghosts. Neither here nor there. Neither dead nor alive. And utterly, completely enslaved to his will. Thralls. Unable to end their half-existence, unable to act except in ways he permitted, unable even to voice their grievances. But conscious and aware at every moment of what was being done to them.”

Things begin to fall into place. Phinis Gestor starts to have an inkling of what Madena apparently thinks would be good for him to do here, the task that his ex-wife has set for him.

He says nothing until the boat is beached, they are disembarked and the boatman is paid. Then, when the boatman leaves to moor the boat in a convenient cove nearby until he is needed again, he turns to Madena and says, “I feel somewhat dubious about this, to be perfectly frank with you. These spirits have been… traumatized well beyond the power of anyone to heal, I should think. What exactly have you been doing here?”

“You’re not wrong about how much they’ve suffered. But that’s not all – hear me out. I’m not done telling you about this place.

“The Dragonborn came by, as I said, and after she left it seems Arin… Ar… the necromancer – let’s not bother ourselves with the names of scum – the necromancer was properly… disposed of, and the spirits freed. But not all. Some of the more resilient ones could pass properly to whatever afterlife they subscribed to. Sovngarde, the Far Shore, straight to Aetherius, and so on. But many couldn’t. They had been driven insane, or something like it. Who can blame them?

“The Dragonborn can’t have been very happy about leaving them behind like this, like a job half done, but as we all know she was a very busy woman and she had the entire world to save, so she had to go. So that’s how it was. And that’s fine, I suppose. She and her companions already did more than anyone else could, at the time.

“But something really odd began to happen to this place. My personal theory is that it became a sort of psychic cynosure. There was just… so much distilled suffering and _rage_ in this place. Shades from all over Skyrim, and even beyond, began appearing here, as some foolhardy adventurers reported. I came here myself with an armed guard provided by Jarl Brina a few months ago, and I verified those rumors.

“Yngvild is now truly one of the most haunted places in Skyrim, I’ll wager. Its hallways and chambers are now crowded with the unquiet spirits of people from all over who were… brutalized when they were alive. Not just women, though it’s probably about ten women to every male spirit that manifests here. Many of the original victims are still around, still in the horrendous condition that was inflicted on them. Still ectoplasmic remnants. But the others are simply ghosts, spirits.

“You can feel it, the moment you walk into the place. The rage, the grief, the soul-gnawing bitterness that lingers.”

Madena looks at her gloved hands despairingly.

“Healing was never even my strong suit,” she says. “I was a battlemage, not even a combat healer. But I try to do what I can. I make Circles of Rejuvenation and calibrate them as much as I know how, and any spirit who consents to stay inside for long enough can start to… heal. It’s… better than nothing.”

Phinis Gestor begins to truly understand. His task here is neither healing nor exorcism. Madena is attempting to soothe these troubled souls enough for them to pass on. But the aetheric tethers are highly unstable – he can already sense the chaotic undertow right beneath his feet, pulling this way and that. Madena needs his skill and finesse with manipulating the fine filaments of the aetheric membrane, to temper the thaumic resonances such that the unquiet spirits can bask more fully in the restorative energies she generates.

It will not be easy, even for him. The tethers are truly in an astounding mess, so much so that if he were to conduct the appropriate rituals he feels sure he would discover that the more malign Daedric Princes already have a portion of their attention on this place. Molag Bal, for certain. Vaermina, likely. Mephala, perhaps. True atrocity has been committed here, he thinks. That necromancer has much to answer for.

Not merely him, though the vile reprobate does make an easy target for excoriation. Madena has just said the spirits come from all over Skyrim, possibly all Tamriel. There are many such brutes everywhere, whether necromancers or not, necrophiliacs or otherwise. The world is full of monsters.

He is one. He realizes this with a shudder of shock that roots him in place. He is one such.

“I should not be here,” he finds himself saying.

Madena narrows her eyes. “You know you have nothing to fear,” she says, “mighty Conjurer that you are. So it’s not that. What, is this guilt? You feel you’re not pure enough for this sacred task?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

“Really, I…”

“A load of horker shit, and you know it. My hands are stained with blood, you know very well. I’m not clean either. But this is something that needs doing, and no one else is here to do it, and the Dragonborn hasn’t come here again since the last time, so here I am. And you know very well I could use your help. This is _your_ field of expertise. Master Falion took you under his wing for a good reason, you know. I never begrudged you that one whit. You can help me here, with these spirits. You don’t have to heal their hurts, soothe their souls. You don’t have to tell them who you are or what you’ve done. None of them care about you or how penitent you may or may not be. You don’t have to do anything except help me stabilize the damned tethers and keep the cross-planar flicker to an acceptable minimum. In other words, what you _can_ do is something _useful._

“So will you help me or not?”

Mutely, Phinis Gestor gestures for her to lead the way.

One by one, the spirits materialize in front of Madena, inside the Circles she creates. By his art, they take on coherent form, and their voices can be heard. Communication can take place properly now; they converse with Madena. One by one, they speak their stories, unload their burdens.

“He was my shield-brother. I trusted him. We’d grown up together. After our battle against the Frost Troll in that cave, I was wounded. Near death. He forced himself on me that night. I couldn’t resist. By morning I was dead. It was my shield that took the brunt of the Troll’s blows, my axe that cleaved its neck. But he took the skull back and claimed the glory. And he violated me – murdered me in my sleeping furs. I want my revenge. I won’t find it in Sovngarde. I want it _here!”_

“I’d dreamed of joining the Legion ever since I was a girl. When the war broke out I left my village and made my way to Anvil. I was assigned to a squad as their healer. They were all men. They jeered at me, said I had no place on the battlefield, said I would faint at the sight of blood and the smell of spilled guts. By day I saved their lives and health. By night I had to fend them off. There was one in particular, a rake. He wouldn’t let me alone. He forced me to go with him some distance from the camp one night, and tried to have his way with me. There were enemies about. He managed to escape and make his way back. I was killed. And then he told them I’d broken camp discipline, strayed too far, and he’d tried to rescue me but couldn’t. They called him a good soldier. He’s retired now, on a farm and a wife he beats every other night, and children who steal from passing merchants’ carts.”

“When I refused his advances, I was framed for stealing from the warehouse, and thrown out onto the streets. I lost my life to cutthroats days later. They took everything from me. My honor, my life, my happiness. I had nothing left. I was nothing.”

“I ran to the guards, screaming and weeping. My clothes were half-torn and hanging off me. The guards laughed at me, mocked me, accused me of being a harlot and a prostitute. My family was shamed. I took my own life. But I shouldn’t have. I should’ve stayed alive, to murder him instead. I cannot find my way back to him now. The way is shut. The roads are all in fog, and the skies are always dark. I cannot see my way back to him, to make him suffer just a little of what I did. The way is shut.”

“I told him ‘no’, again and again. I shouted it, screamed it. He laughed and scolded me for playing games. No one came to help me. I kicked at him. He swore at me, drew his dagger, and slew me. I am too angry to follow Tu’whacca to the Far Shore. No, I lie. I am too afraid. Because he has been dead many years, and I do not want to see him there. I would rather never go on to the Far Shore, if he is there.”

“I had to watch as he violated my sister. I had no control – his magic was too powerful. We could not resist. He forced me to help him. And then he did the same to me. I cannot stay. I cannot go. I cannot live. I cannot die. I cannot be silent, but I cannot say what I want to say. What am I? What am I?”

On and on, they tell their stories, and Madena tries to give them what comfort she can with her words and her magic. On and on it goes.

Phinis finds himself staggering out into the open, his stomach churning painfully as it hurls its contents out of his mouth and onto the snow. He blinks the tears of nausea away, and coughs violently.

This is not what he came for, he thinks. He has come to Dawnstar with some notion – he admits this fully to himself now – of living in a pretense of asceticism, while retaining the knowledge of his craft that sets him apart from the common throng. His rented house was to have become a veritable mansion in the interior – not an outlaw warlock’s tower, but still the domain of a respectable retired practitioner of arcane arts. Opulent comforts beneath a rugged veneer. A sense of quiet, self-enforced isolation as he gazes out at the stark majesty of Skyrim’s northern coast. A noble figure he would cut; fallen, yes, but still possessed of dignity. That is how he had imagined he would spend his days.

Instead he is here, listening to the voices of the dead but not departed, hearing their horrifying tales filled with monsters he has not the least clue of how to ward off. And within, always the realization that hovers like a vengeful wraith: what he has done has been done, and cannot be revoked. He too has summoned a monster for someone, for Ervesa Sadras. A “daimon” – the scholar Morian Zenas famously mocked the Marukhati Selective for forbidding “trafficke with daimons” while neglecting to explain what “daimons” actually were. But the scholarly quibble is meaningless. Ervesa surely knows what a “daimon” is. The shades of the dead women know what it is. Each one of them lives with at least one.

Madena comes out too, and stands there in silence for some time as he retches and loses the last of his breakfast. When he has taken a swig of water from his waterskin, she says, “When you’re ready, come back in. It goes much more easily with your help.”

He complies and returns, to assist his ex-wife in this seemingly hopeless task. He thinks he will get used to it, but he does not. He is not a sentimental or maudlin man, he hopes; he is an intellectual, bookish yet cognizant of the ways of the world, no stranger to brutality – he has gazed directly upon the suffering in Coldharbor, he has seen the carnage in the Deadlands, he has even glimpsed twisted visions from out of Vaermina’s Quagmire. Like Madena, he will grow inured to these horrifying tales told by these aggrieved spirits, he hopes.

That is not what happens. The more he hears, the more revulsion he feels. He does not understand this. The awaited carapace over his emotions does not form. His whole being is gripped by what he hears. They are quite unlike the lurid visions he has seen in Oblivion. They do not awaken latent prurient shiverings. They do not stoke the lascivious fires of forbidden lust. They are simply harrowing to hear. They stun him into silent, shared suffering.

There are too many of them. The parade never ends. And every once in a while, one of them will finally sigh, allow the golden light from Madena’s circle to infuse her, and fade away into what he hopes is a more blessed state. But this happens only rarely.

A curious thing, that a man as selfish as himself is now in service to these dead spirits who would tear him apart with their ghostly talons if they knew about his life, he is certain. They pay him no attention during the sessions Madena conducts. He performs his arcane task unobtrusively: it is to Madena that they address themselves. And that is as it should be. He has no words for them; he has nothing to offer them.

What he does now may perhaps be construed in an oblique way as a service to these women, but still, part of himself wonders if there is not a better, a more productive way he can put his considerable talents to use. A sufficiently trained College Adept could do what he is doing now, perhaps with less finesse, but passably.

No. It falls to him, because he is here. Because Madena has asked him to, and he cannot in good conscience refuse. He must not think of ways to win high honor, to elevate his standing in the society he now inhabits. He does this with Madena now, because there is no one else to do it.

On one particularly exhausting evening, Madena tells the boatman to leave and return in the morning; they will spend the night just outside Yngvild. Phinis has a dream that feels more like a vision.

He sees Yngvild rising as a dome. Atop that dome, he sees the Dragonborn, nominal Archmage of the College of Winterhold. He recognizes her not only because of her apparel and accoutrements, but also because she is a dragon. In the manner of dreams, he sees her standing there and knows that her form is at one and the same time that of a mortal, and that of a dragon.

And to either side of her stand two venerable figures, both men. Each is holding a staff, and each is looking towards her. They speak with her in tones of deferential respect, but Phinis cannot make out the words. But he knows the tone they are using, in the manner of dreams.

He knows who they are. The knowledge is there, in his mind, in the manner of dreams. Vanus Galerion and Hannibal Traven stand speaking with the Dovahkiin.

Then suddenly she is standing before him, and it is as though she is wrapped in the crackling, firey form of a dragon. Her head is crowned with a storm. Helpless with terror, he falls to his knees before her and averts his eyes.

“Mercy,” he cries.

 **Stand up,** she says, and her words buffet him like a strong wind.

But stand he does.

**Who do you say that I am?**

“The… the Last Dragonborn. Archmage. My Archmage.”

**I am like the girl who was hurt in the darkness and ate what was given to her.**

He can feel her stern, censorious gaze upon him – he looks down, unable to gaze into that blazing visage.

“I crave forgiveness,” he whispers, his shoulders shrinking.

Again she Speaks, each word like a physical blow upon his dream body.

**Forgiveness is neither here nor there. Forgiveness is not your prize to be won. Redemption is not your story to tell. Do not seek to regain lost honor. Have no thought for these things. Go, and henceforth do for others what you would have them do for you.**

When he looks up again she is gone, and so are the other two who were with her. He does not know when he crosses the boundary from sleep to wakefulness, but he is gradually aware that he is lying in his bedroll, his forehead bathed in cold sweat.

Madena is not inured to the stories of suffering and injustice she hears, he realizes now. She feels all of it keenly. She takes all of it into herself. It is not a mere show of compassion; her heart is anything but leathery, as she stands and tries to soothe the souls of those poor women, even though it is like rolling a boulder up a slope only to have it roll down again before it reaches the apex.

Let him not call them “poor”. If they are poor he is bankrupt.

Vanus Galerion, Second Era. Called the “Great Mage”, founder of the Mages’ Guild of Tamriel. Avowed foe of Mannimarco the Worm King. Sacrificed himself to save others.

Hannibal Traven, Third Era. Archmage of the Mages’ Guild. His plan led to the defeat of Mannimarco the Worm King. Sacrificed himself to save others.

Phinis Gestor, Fourth Era. Formerly of the College of Winterhold. Disgraced, dishonored, dishonorable. Guilty of assault, violation, coercion. Rape. Sacrificed others to pleasure himself.

His lips move. Blest be the outcast. Let him find succor, though he deserves but little. Let him arise, and go, and find warmth by a small fire. Let him hear a good word in the deep heart’s core.


	7. Chapter 7

Winterhold has seen much improvement within just a span of the last few months. The main road through the town has been broadened; there is even a separate lane for ore wagons and carts carrying produce from the south. Some of the ruined houses have been rebuilt and are being refurbished for new tenants. Bleakness and lack of purpose are being transformed into a buzz of industry and enterprise.

The Sadras townhouse is easily recognizable; it is the only example of Dunmer architecture in Winterhold, although soon this will not be the case once several construction projects Phinis passed by on the way here are completed. He speaks politely to the servant who greets him at the door – an elderly Dunmer male who has the distinguished look of an experienced majordomo. He gives his name simply, without any titles.

Talvur Sadras is not at the townhouse. He is at the customs house which Phinis walked past just minutes ago, attending to matters of business. Phinis thanks the servant, who nods graciously to him in parting, and retraces his steps.

In the office where he is sitting, Talvur sees him and half-rises from his chair, his brow furrowing in frank puzzlement.

“Master Talvur Sadras,” he says. “Serjo. If you do not wish to see me I will leave at once.”

“No, no. Please, have a seat. I’m just going over some ledgers and contract agreements. Do you mind if I finish first?”

“By all means. Please don’t let me interrupt your work.”

There is a framed painting on the wall. It is a family painting. Talvur is the proud patriarch, hovering over the principal members of his clan: his wife, his daughter Ervesa, and several others whom Phinis does not recognize. It is clear from the way Talvur holds his seated daughter’s shoulders that she is the apple of his eye. In the painting she sits, demure and happy. Unsullied. He averts his gaze. He must flee temptation, not seek it out.

At last, Talvur sets aside the documents in front of him. “So,” he says. “Master Phinis Gestor. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He speaks as calmly as he can. “I am here because I would like to make an accounting to you. I feel matters between us were left… unresolved. Our last interaction was… rather heated, and served no purpose. I was passing through Winterhold again, and I thought I would like to rectify this state of affairs.”

“Say on.”

“After Ervesa lodged her complaint, as you know, the College launched an inquiry. As a result, I was expelled from the College. That much history, you are aware of.”

Talvur has picked up a quill and is now idly stroking the tips of the feathers. The movement is idle, not impatient.

“You know your daughter’s side of the story. I would like now, with your permission, to give you mine, if you are prepared to hear it.

“It began without premeditation on my part. It happened that I was at a bit of a loose end. I had been making unsanctioned trips to the realm of Sanguine, you see, but that had perforce come to an end. So I was in the frame of mind, as men of my age often are, to seek out adventure leading to gratification. Forgive me for speaking this way. I am trying to be frank.

“But with Ervesa… something different happened. Something pure, I think, despite my inherent impurity, began to grow within me. But I was an imperfect vessel for this nascent thing. I cannot say if it seized me or if I seized it, but perhaps it is the latter, because what I did subsequently was grotesque in the extreme. There are many things I could have done differently. Your daughter kindled something in me, something powerful, but I was not a worthy receptacle. I was unfit to channel this force. I lost control of it, and it overwhelmed me with its intensity.”

Talvur has stopped stroking the quill. “Master Gestor,” he says, smiling crookedly, “I am asking myself, what in Oblivion you think you are doing, coming up to me and telling me stories…”

“I’m being outrageous. I know. I simply wish to say, no fault accrues to her. None whatsoever. It was all mine. I wish there to be no misunderstanding on this score. That is all I wish to say. How is Ervesa?”

“She is well. She has resumed her studies at the College. They have given her special dispensation to do so. She is progressing well enough. Brelyna Maryon was a very good friend to her. She provided Ervesa a great deal of guidance before she returned to Windhelm. So, my daughter is all right. What about you? What are your plans now that you have left the College?”

“I’ve taken up residence in Dawnstar now. Living just next door to my ex-wife, in fact. She helped me to get settled in. I’m currently helping her with a personal… undertaking… of hers. I may also compile some of my research into a new book. One way or another, I will keep myself busy.”

He stops. Talvur is regarding him with a strange look in his eyes.

“So,” Talvur says softly. “How are the mighty fallen!”

Fallen, yes, certainly. But mighty? Does it describe him? Is it an accurate descriptor to apply to Phinis Gestor?

“Perhaps it does us good to fall every now and then,” he says, “as long as we do not break.”

“Good,” Talvur says, still looking at him with that strange intensity. “Good. Good. Good.”

Phinis rises to his feet awkwardly. “I have taken up enough of your time. I thank you for listening to what I have to say.” He holds out a hand, and Talvur Sadras looks at it a moment before reaching out to take it.

As he is walking out the door, Talvur suddenly calls out. “Master Gestor!”

“Please,” he says, turning around, “it is just Phinis, now.”

“What are your plans for the evening?”

“I have a room at the Frozen Hearth. I have no plans.”

“Come and have dinner with us.”

“Serjo, I hardly think your wife or daughter would…”

“Come and break bread with us. You know the address?”

“I have visited your townhouse already, yes.”

“Good. Good.”

At the appointed time he is welcomed again at the door by the majordomo, who greets him with a certain stiffness that was not previously there. There is a certain hard glint in his eye as he holds the doors open. Phinis feels certain that now the majordomo knows who he is; very likely he is a longtime vassal of House Sadras who has conceived a doting affection for young Ervesa. Little wonder then, that he would behave towards Phinis now with more than a little astringency.

“Come, come,” Talvur says, ushering him to a seat against the curved wall. The house is laid out in the traditional Dunmer manner: the kitchen and dining area combined constitute the entrance, and surround the mouth of the stairs that lead down to the other rooms.

There is no sign of the other family members. “Sit, sit!” Talvur says, almost gaily. “Wait a moment.” Then he disappears down the stairs.

Doubtless they are waiting in their private rooms below. There will be a tussle over him, over this strange decision by the head of the house to invite Phinis Gestor. The unwanted visitor. The man whose name is darkness.

Then they appear, climbing the stairs, with Talvur behind them. Ervesa is accompanied by her mother. The resemblance is striking. She meets his gaze, and despite himself a shiver runs through him. This is the hour. Gods give him strength.

“You haven’t met my wife,” Talvur says. “Tolvasa, this is Phinis Gestor, formerly of the College.”

“Serjo,” he says, giving her a bow. The nod she gives him is stiff, but she comports herself with dutiful dignity. He can see where Ervesa got her beauty from. Old habits of mind intrude – he wrenches his eyes and his thoughts away from the draping of fabric over slim but curvy hips.

Ervesa stands some distance away and does not respond when Talvur beckons.

Phinis turns to him. “Serjo, I am just causing upset in your home,” he says. “It was kind of you to invite me, but I should be going.”

“Nonsense! Stay, stay! We will get through this!” He leans in, to stage-whisper in Phinis’s ear. “You have to be strong!”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Ervesa’s lips – the first cracking of her countenance. She nods slightly at her father and mother, and they array themselves around the cookfires as the servants begin to dole out the food.

Pan-fried saltrice and kwama eggs, seasoned generously with chopped hackle-lo. Slices of guar tenderloin, lightly marinated with fermented longfin sauce. A light broth of bittergreen and chopped onions, with diced ash-yam. “Mind, it’s hot,” Tolvasa Sadras says as she helps to ladle some into his bowl. These are the only words she says to him for the entire dinner.

As they eat, he tries to be a good guest, to fill the silences. He talks about the many ancient tombs and crypts that surround Dawnstar, and how the farther north one gets the more the architecture is visibly Atmoran, shorn of the Nedic influence still discernible in parts of Skyrim. He describes his ex-wife’s role as Court Wizard to Jarl Brina Merilis, and speaks of her as a veteran of the Great War who retired with honor. He glosses over the details of Yngvild, saying only that she has embarked on an undertaking in which he finds he is fortunate enough to lend his aid. He mentions the occasional depredations of the local Giants.

Stitched together like this, his life takes on the quality of a vacation. A life with no shadows. A life almost idiotic in its simplicity. He finds himself yearning for this simplicity.

Conversation flags, but somehow they get through the meal. Ervesa stands up, addresses her father. “I have to get back to my studies. I have an essay to turn in by this Fredas,” she says, before returning down the stairs to her room. Tolvasa also makes her excuses and leaves. The servants quietly clear the crockery. Phinis and Talvur are alone.

He can prevaricate no longer. “About Ervesa.”

“Yes.”

“One more thing, and then I am finished. I think, despite the differences between Ervesa and myself, despite our positions at the College, it could have turned out differently. Something better could have happened. But I lacked a certain… something. I lacked…” he hunts for the word, “… restraint. I was at odds and ends, and tired of waiting, if you understand what I’m getting at. For that, I am sorry.

“I am sorry for what I put your daughter through. I am sorry for what I put your family through. You have a wonderful family. She is a wonderful, resilient young Mer. I apologize for the grief I have caused you and Tolvasa. I ask for your pardon.”

No, not wonderful. Exemplary.

“So, at last you apologize. I wondered when it was coming.” Talvur gets up, and begins pacing the room. “But see here. You say you are sorry. You lacked restraint. If you had possessed restraint we would not be where we are today. But I say to myself, we are all sorry when we are found out. Then we are very sorry. The question is not, are we sorry? The question is, what lesson have we learned? The question is, what are we going to do now that we are sorry? Have you any ideas, Master Gestor?”

He tries to choose his words carefully. “I would say that after a certain age, it is too late to learn lessons, as it were. Then one can only be punished, and punished. In my own terms, I am being punished for what I did to your daughter. I am living in a state of dishonor. Sunk into this state. I do not know if I will be able to lift myself from it. I do not murmur against this punishment. I do not refuse it. I am living it out, from day to day, trying to accept it as my state of being. Do you think this suffices?”

“I don’t know. I am not you. Why are you here, Master Gestor?”

He does not respond.

“I will tell you,” Talvur says. “You came to speak to me. Yes? Yes. You came to speak to me. But it is easy to speak to me. All my House’s servants and vassals know it. All my employees know it. It is easy to speak to Serjo Sadras, they say. You can get off easy with Talvur Sadras. They all know it.” He smiles crookedly. “So who did you really come to speak to?”

Phinis gets up, and stumbles drunkenly down the stairs even though he has drunk but little of the mazte that was served earlier. He blunders through the corridor, sees the half-open door and hears the snatches of conversation drifting out from within. He pushes the door open.

Ervesa and her mother are inside, seated side by side on the bed. They look at him, astonished.

With careful ceremony, Phinis Gestor gets on his knees and touches his forehead to the floor.

This will have to be enough. He does not know what else to do. He does not know what more he can do.

When he looks up, they are still frozen, staring at him. He meets Ervesa’s gaze. Once again, the rubies within rubies threaten to mesmerize him, but he humbly drops his eyes. Again the shudder of desire runs through him. Never again – never again. This has run its course. There will be no flash of mutual feeling – he must not hope to find any such thing here.

“I am grateful for your kindness,” he says to the floor. “Thank you for your generous hospitality. Thank you for the meal.”

He gets up stiffly. Ervesa seems about to speak, but she says nothing as he turns and leaves the room.

Outside the house, Talvur Sadras catches up to him.

“Master Gestor, I would like to wish you strength for the future,” he says, and pauses. “There is a thing I did not come around to asking. You’re not hoping for us to intervene on your behalf with the College, are you? To reinstate you?”

“That thought had not crossed my mind. I am finished with the College.”

“Good, because the path you are on has been ordained for you by the gods. It is not for us to interfere.”

“I understand.”

Not truly the gods, perhaps. But someone who is becoming one of them.

The skies are clear over Yngvild. The waters lap softy at the shoreline. The fire burns vigorously in the pit.

Madena is smiling – the first time she has really smiled, he realizes, since their reunion. Since his arrival in Dawnstar. “I can hardly believe it,” she keeps saying. “It’s as if a tipping point was reached. Suddenly they’re willing to be released, to let it all go. To seek peace on their own terms. I’d thank the Divines if I knew which one to thank.”

He remembers his dream, and says nothing. Already, the person who first came to the College as a Novice has become nigh unrecognizable. Transfigured. That is what he saw in his dream: a Transfigured figure. She is _mantling_ Talos. Changing who Talos is. Changing what Ysmir, the Dragon of the North, represents. Walking like them until they walk like her.

“Do you know,” Madena says, “I had the strangest dream last night. I’m not much for dreams, as a rule. Mine tend to be terrible. But I woke up this morning feeling… well, feeling better than I’ve felt for a long, long time.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“I was here, standing outside Yngvild. And the Dragonborn was standing with me. I didn’t know her at first, but she turned to me and started thanking me.

“She said something like, thank you for healing my wounds when I was hurt and bleeding, for bringing me water when I was thirsty, for shading me from the blazing sun, for wrapping furs about me when I was freezing cold, for giving me comfort when I was sorrowful, and grieving for me when I was dead.

“And I shook my head and asked her, wait, when have I ever done anything like that for you? Who are you, anyway?

“And then as I looked at her I somehow just knew who she was, right then. I remembered then, I’d glimpsed her just once before, a few years ago. I was speaking with my old friend Silus, outside his house, and I saw her then, but only in passing, for a moment or two.

“And she said… she said, ‘Verily, I say unto you: inasmuch as you have done these things unto the least of these my brothers and sisters, you have done them unto me.’”

He sits with her in companionable silence, wrapped in his own thoughts as she seems to be in hers. He does not share the details of his dream. There seems little purpose to doing so.

It is true: the souls are flying free at last. They speak with Madena in the circle, they listen – actually seem to listen – and then, a moment of stillness. Then the light floods them, and they fade and are gone. They will pass on to this afterlife, or that; and eventually all of them will be recycled into the Dreamsleeve. Even a jaded cynic like him can recognize the beauty of those moments. In every soaring soul, something heavy letting go.

“So… you’ll be staying in Dawnstar, then?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes.”

“It’s good having you here, Phinis. You’ve been a great help. Thank you.”

“Not at all, Madena. I’m glad I was of some help.”

“No plans to return to the College, then? Or to be a dedicated practitioner again?

“I may well follow in the footsteps of Master Falion, unworthy disciple though I be. What he does in Morthal, I suppose I could try doing here. Just helping anyone who needs my particular kind of expertise. As you are doing.”

Madena is silent for a time. Then she says, “How humiliating, though. To have such high hopes, and then to end like this.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Madena chuckles grimly.

Phinis continues, “Yes, humiliating. But perhaps it is good for me to learn humility. Not you, I think. Me. To start again from nothing. Not ‘nothing but’, but ‘nothing’. No pretensions, no illusions, no burdens. No more worrying about a career and reputation I wrecked with my own hands, or the wounds I left behind me. Those wounds must heal without me; I must not be a part of that story. This is what I must have from this point forth: nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Madena says. “You have a friend, at least.”

“Yes,” he says to her, with genuine warmth. “A friend.”

**Epilogue – Windhelm, the Palace of the Kings, Court Wizard’s chambers**

“What he was being punished for,” Brelyna said, poking the embers in the fireplace, “was not his desires. He was not being punished for being lustful, for carnality. We all have lusts, desires. We all want those pleasures. I know I certainly do. No, his punishment was for not respecting people _qua_ people, individuals with their own volition and right to self-determination, liberties that should not be infringed upon. He used a person as he would use a thing, as he used the tools of his craft, as he used the Daedra.”

“But we all use tools and… and things,” Onmund said, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Is there something wrong in that?”

“No, not as such, not in the intrinsic use of objects, or the mystic arts. But I believe it predisposed him… conditioned him, rather, to think of the world around him a certain way. To think of people around him that same way: as things to be used, then dismissed or discarded.”

“Then we might castigate all lords and ladies, kings and queens. Leaders of armies who move soldiers around, expending them for some purpose or another,” Ervesa said. “Oughtn’t we punish those, too?”

“We might, at that.” Brelyna settled back in her chair. “But consider. The Last Dragonborn has been a commander of armies herself. She has been a fell-handed warrior. She has ruled on weighty matters, and in time to come she may well find herself holding the reins of governance in some way. I think the key is in the _manner_ of her doing. Her… her way of perceiving. An attitudinal shift that we should strive to enact.

“If a Jarl, for instance, looks at his people and sees them only as payers of tax monies, or potential soldiers to be drafted, then he is seeing them as _instruments._ In the same way, the owner of a sawmill may look out at the vast forests and see only logs to be processed, money to be made. So if we ask the Jarl what he _knows_ about his people, and he says only, the population is so many, and so much of their wealth goes into his coffers, and he may raise an armed force of such a size… then there is something fundamentally regrettable about this state of mind.

“He has what we may term effective control over his domain. Yet, this control has given him a dangerous delusion. He has become blind to what his Hold, his people _really are._ He has his scribes, his underlings, to tell him so many things about his Hold, and precisely because of all his knowledge he will never know the _truth_ about it.

“But when has the Dragonborn ever thought this way? She does something quite different. She seems to be looking for something, as she goes all over Skyrim, all over Tamriel. Something she deems precious. Not the kind of things adventurers quest for: potent potions and enchanted weaponry, gold and jewels and all of that. What do you think she was looking for when she went to help you, Ervesa? She went to Solitude, but didn’t speak to Jarl Elisif, Falk Firebeard, General Tullius. She went to a tavern, spoke to a Khajiit friend, and then went looking for you. What do you think she was hoping to find on that excursion?”

Ervesa shook her head, bemused. “I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” she said softly. “I wonder about that every day, myself.”

“Or when she went to Speak to that old Breton knight on the Dragon Bridge? Or when she told us that story about those two women in Markarth, at Heljarchen Hall? Or when she Spoke on her mountaintop to anyone who asked her anything – that bunkhouse maid, that thief, anyone?

“She’s asked me to do many things, but I have never felt used by her, even though I _was_ being used by her, in a manner of speaking. I know when she looks at me that she doesn’t see something to be used. She sees the _truth_ of me. Of what I am, and what I could be. We of the Eight and One, her companions – we’re not a… a _standing reserve,_ if you will allow the military metaphor? We’re not resources for her to call upon.

“So… I don’t know for sure how right I am. But my guess is that on her sojourns that we’re hearing about… she is looking for the world to _reveal itself.”_

Onmund chuckled and sighed. “You’ve lost me there, I’m afraid. I never was much for abstract things like this.”

“Lost me as well,” Ervesa said with a small smile of commiseration at Onmund. “I don’t really follow. But what I do know… what I do know is that she’s helped me enough. It’s time I chose my own way, my own life.”

“And I,” Onmund told her with a small half-bow in his chair, “would be honored to be your companion on this new journey. At least for a time.” Ervesa smiled gratefully and nodded.

Brelyna said, “You’ll still be a member of the College in good standing, wherever you go. That can help open doors in some places.”

“I won’t say no to that. But well, as for my studies at the College, and my days of being a cloistered heiress of my House…”

“You’re giving them up?”

“Yes. I’m giving them up.”


End file.
